What He Offered
by gembones
Summary: Booth's Therapy #3: his relationships with women. In this 3rd installment, I attempt to answer the question Booth poses in Daredevil in the Mold: why don't they want what I'm offering? It begins with Marianne Booth and will eventually cover most of B&B's romantic history (at least, that's the plan). Thanks for reading and reviewing.
1. Chapter 1

**What He Offered**

 **Chapter one - The letter in the secretary**

Temperance "Bones" Brennan stood in the foyer of her house watching the front door swing to a close. She breathed a sigh of relief. They were all gone to the National Zoo: her husband, their two children and their house guests for the week-end, Marianne and Reggie. With travel to and fro, visiting all the exhibits and a stop for ice cream and a souvenir at the museum shop, they figured to be gone a good four hours, maybe more if traffic was heavy. She had work enough to fill every minute of those hours, she knew; it only remained for her to decide where to start.

She had turned toward the living area with the idea of finishing up the article she'd been reading in _The Forensic Examiner_ when her phone pinged: a text from Booth. She knew a moment's disquiet, but quickly realized that, with all the loading of equipment and fastening into car seats that went into preparing two young children for departure, they likely had not yet left the driveway. Had they forgotten something she could bring out to them? Curious, she retrieved the message: " **Look in the secretary**."

For a moment, she was flummoxed. _Look in the secretary?_ She could certainly use an assistant to help with the paperwork that swamped her desk, but… Ah, it came to her: _secretary,_ as in the piece of furniture that currently stood against the wall opposite the breakfast bar. She stepped over to it, and pulled down the lid, exposing against a background of cubbyholes filled with invoices, bank slips, receipts, and assorted small notebooks a large crisp manila envelope with the words _Bones, please read now_ written in Booth's hand across its middle. Intrigued, she picked up the envelope, settled into the rolling desk chair, lifted the flap, and extracted a sheaf of papers held together by a large metal clip.

Her phone pinged again. Booth had better not be texting and driving. " **Got it**?"

She pressed the thumbs up icon and "send." She waited to see if there would be a follow-up message but mercifully her answer seemed to have satisfied him.

She returned to the sheaf of papers. The top sheet appeared to be a cover letter type-written on heavy-weight paper. The letterhead read: Dr. Phillip Cameron, PhD. Galvanized, Brennan scanned down to the body of the letter, and read:

 _Dear Dr. Brennan,_

 _It will, no doubt, seem unorthodox (if not somewhat unethical) of me to address you directly in this letter, but I assure you that I do so with Mr. Booth's concurrence, indeed at his request. I feel no compunction in telling you that, over the months that he and I have worked together in therapy, I have come to feel that your husband is not only a patient but a friend. He has asked for my help in this matter, and I am only too glad to be of assistance._

 _As Mr. Booth is a man of his word, he has wanted to keep his promise to you to recount what he has learned about himself and his relationship to women, beginning with his mother up to and including the other great love of his life, who is, of course, yourself. As you know, he does not have a great deal of confidence in his ability to express himself intelligibly off the cuff, (an insecurity which I have repeatedly assured him is unfounded, by the way), and so, I suggested that he write down the thoughts he wanted to communicate in essay form, as a sort of rehearsal, if you like._

 _You may imagine my surprise when, at our next session, Mr. Booth presented me not with an essay but a short story, an allegory to be precise, representing the history of his relationships. The time and thought that went into creating this document were immediately apparent and impressive. Upon reading, I found that his efforts had been amply rewarded: his tale was cogent, well-structured, and, to my mind, moving. Most importantly, the insights we had arrived at together during therapy were reflected accurately._

 _Having as his intended reader a best-selling novelist, Mr. Booth was understandably concerned about the quality of his writing, and inquired if I would be willing to act as his editor. I have had extensive experience editing scholarly articles and so, was happy to undertake the task. I have taken the liberty of making a number of changes in vocabulary selection, sentence structure and, of course, psychological content, always keeping as my guiding principle the maintenance of Mr. Booth's tone and personal style. He has read my edited version, and given it his approval._

 _I expect that you will have questions or observations that you will want to share with your husband once you have completed your reading, and to aid you in recalling them, I have had the story printed out double-spaced and with wide margins so that you can pencil, or indeed ink, any comments that might occur to you. Mr. Booth has a copy of the text on his lap top, so you must feel free to mark the pages up as much as you like._

 _In closing, Dr. Brennan, may I say that I am a great fan of your novels, and am looking forward eagerly to your next release._

 _Yours, most sincerely,_

 _Phillip Cameron_

 _P.S. You will notice that while "Rebecca" is named in the story, the son Mr. Booth shares with her is not. This is not an oversight on his part. He had included some paragraphs about Parker, but as the focus of the piece is on adult women, I thought those passages extraneous and convinced him to omit them._

Bones was too excited about the remaining contents of the envelope to give much thought to Dr. Cameron's letter, other than to hope he had not translated Booth's words into his own florid language. She put the letter to one side, and took up the first page of the story.


	2. Chapter 2 : Women Leave

**What He Offered**

 **Chapter Two: Women Leave**

The first sheet of the document was a cover page of sorts with a few words, well-centered in bold-faced type. Bones laughed out loud at the title and author attribution:

 **A Tale of Twin Booths**

by Andy Lister (with Phillip Cameron)

She grabbed a number 2 pencil from the jar, and noted in the margin: _very amusing!_ There were another couple of lines beneath:

 **Dedicated to Dr. Temperance Brennan, "my first, my last, my everything"**

She smiled fondly, recognizing in this gesture an oblique reference to the books she had dedicated to him over the years. It had always meant so much to him. She wrote: _Thank you, Booth. As a matter of curiosity, why the quotation marks?_

She then set the page down carefully on the open desk top, and began to read in earnest.

A Tale of Twin Booths

Anyone meeting the Booth boys for the first time as adolescents would not have guessed that Vic and Tim had started off life as identical twins, but it was true just the same. For their first few years, they were indistinguishable both in character and in appearance; even their parents could not tell them apart. Their first language was not English, but rather a jibber jabber all their own in which they would hold long, involved conversations complete with jokes, if their periodic shouts of laughter were any indication. In those years, the boys were the best of friends, rarely if ever apart, and when they were separated, each appeared to know, even at considerable distance, what the other was feeling. On one memorable occasion, while out shopping with his mother, Vic tripped over his own feet running in the parking lot and scraped his knees and palms bloody on the rough pavement. At that exact moment, Tim, who had been playing placidly at home under the supervision of his father, burst into noisy tears and would not be comforted until he and Vic were reunited. As toddlers, as kindergarteners, and later still as schoolchildren, the Booth boys went everywhere, did everything together, and there was never, as the song goes, a "discouraging word" between them. They were as happy as the proverbial two peas in a pod.

Then, shortly after their seventh birthday, disaster struck: their mother, whom they both loved dearly, packed her bags one night and was gone by morning. The signs of trouble had all been there — the angry voices, the smashed dishes, the bloody tissues, the tear-stained cheeks — and yet, the twins were shocked and devastated by her sudden absence. It had never once occurred to them that she would leave them. Leave their father, yes, _that_ they understood, but her boys? They both took the news very hard, but for the first time in their life, they didn't react the same way. Vic was beside himself with fury; he felt betrayed, deserted. He would not forgive their mother, even when Tim argued that she'd had no choice, she'd had to save herself, she couldn't deal with the beatings. Tim promised that she hadn't abandoned them forever: she'd come back and take them away someday, maybe soon: they had only to be patient and endure. But Vic would not be consoled. He had made up his mind about their mother, and he hardened his heart against her.

Where Vic was angry, Tim was only sad. He missed his mother terribly, and couldn't stop crying, not even when his brother jeered at him, and called him a baby and a wimp. It just hurt too much. The constant tears got on Vic's nerves, and he warned Tim several times to shut off the waterworks or he'd do it for him, but Tim had to weep, there was no controlling it. Finally, Vic could take no more, and, in his frustration, tried to beat his brother silent with his fists. He was sorry afterwards, and Tim forgave him, recognizing, in his soft heart, that violence was Vic's way of venting the grief they both felt but that only he, Tim, could express openly.

In time, Vic found a healthier channel for his rage: competitive sports. He had lost his mother, but he was determined never to lose again, if he could help it. Like everyone else, his years were divided into seasons, but his were named baseball, football, basketball and hockey, and when he and his teams had no opponent to pulverize, he competed against himself, pushing himself to set personal bests in running, swimming and weight-lifting. As a result of this endless training, he became a physical specimen: straight, strong, lean and well-muscled.

Tim watched his twin's transformation with a mix of concern and admiration, but he had neither the energy nor the desire to follow his example. He was more drawn to quiet, solitary pursuits. He spent his time reading the graphic-novel adventures of super-heroes, learning magic tricks, playing _King_ _'_ _s Quest_ on his computer, and watching TV game shows or animated features like _The Sword in the Stone._ Vic scorned these passtimes as dorky, and his pale, physically under-developed twin as a dweeb.

When they reached adolescence, Vic discovered a brand new outlet for his energy: relations with the opposite sex. He had natural advantages in this arena: a handsome-enough face, an excellent physique, an outgoing personality and a reputation for being cool. Girls were attracted to him, and he might have had his pick, but Vic invariably fell for the girls generally held to be the cutest, smartest, most influential in the school: the cheerleaders, the brainiacs, the class officers, the trend-setters. So long as the girl was seriously in demand, Vic found her irresistible. He wasn't put off by initial rejection, quite the contrary: he reveled in it. The more she resisted, the more he thrilled to the chase. He bent his not-inconsiderable charms to the task of winning the elusive object of his fascination, and in every case, sometimes swiftly, sometime after a long, hard pursuit, he succeeded. He'd lost his virginity by the age of sixteen.

Vic's relationships tended not to last very long, however. If he didn't tire of them first, his girlfriends eventually grew dissatisfied with him. He had a lot going for him, they allowed: he was fun, good-looking, confident and personable, but he was absent, somehow, and shallow; everything was a joke to him. One night, Vic had an epiphany: he and Darla, a girl he wasn't ready to lose, were having a fight about what she called his emotional distance, and he lost it. He couldn't bear her complaints and recriminations — he had to shut her up — so he grabbed her, and crushed his mouth to hers. Soon, they were both breathing hard, fumbling with each other's clothes, fevered, mindless… sated. In the aftermath, as Darla smiled at him in satisfaction, Vic had a life-altering revelation: having great sex was pleasure, but giving great sex was power. He never forgot.

If Vic had girlfriends, Tim had friends who were girls. Years of sedentary activities and little physical exercise had left him soft and out of shape, with a body that appeared shorter than it was due to his perpetually lowered head and drooping shoulders. He was almost pathologically shy, and was happiest when he could pass through the school corridors observing the action around him without attracting any attention himself. There were times, however, when he could not avoid interacting with other students, and it was during these group sessions or partner activities that girls would discover that Tim was really quite nice. He was a good listener, and didn't lose patience when they went on forever about their problems with other girls, or their parents, or their boyfriends. He let them talk, and if he couldn't offer them solutions, at least he seemed to understand and sympathize with their feelings. In time, he gained a reputation for being that very rare thing in a boy: someone you could trust with your pain, a "real sweetheart." Even Vic's disgruntled girlfriends would sit with Tim and open up about his brother's callousness and flippancy. "He could stand to be a lot more like you," they'd tell him before heading off, inevitably, with Vic.

Tim was no more immune to falling in love than Vic, but unlike his twin, he was drawn most powerfully to damaged girls, girls who needed comfort, needed saving: the wallflowers, the introverts, the socially-awkward or outcast. The more precarious the girl's situation, the more irresistible Tim found her. During his adolescent years, Tim had a number of very close 'friendships,' but none of them lasted. They invariably ended on or about the day when Tim, after weeks or months of providing a shoulder to cry on, poured out his heart in turn. He confided his own private misery, his soul-deep suffering in the hope of having conferred upon himself the inestimable balm of acceptance and compassion. But after a few brief 'there, there nows' and some half-hearted pats on the arm, the girls would discover they suddenly had less time for him, and then finally, none at all. From these experiences, Tim drew an important lesson: unburdening yourself to another is a great relief akin to pleasure, but listening to another empathetically is power. When Tim graduated from high school, he was still a virgin.

In this period, the twins' relationship more closely resembled an uneasy truce than either outright war or amity. Vic continued to show contempt for his nerdy brother but never let any harm come to him, and Tim was pained to see his brother act like such a jerk but always prayed he would find a measure of true happiness. In an attempt to be helpful, Tim would sometimes take his brother aside and plead with him. "You should be kinder to her," he would say about the girl Vic was currently dating. "Show her you love her. It doesn't have to be much. Just little things…"

"Or, what?" Vic would invariably snort in derision. "She'll leave me? Take it from someone who has a lot more experience with the ladies than you, little bro: sooner or later, they leave you, every one of them. 'Happily ever after' is just for fairy tales."


	3. Chapter 3 Rebecca

**What He Offered**

 **Chapter 3: Rebecca**

Having come to the bottom of the page six, Bones decided it was a good moment to stop and reflect on what she'd just read. She was a whiz at understanding the straightforward language of scholarly texts and articles, even those replete with academic jargon, but allegories were not her strong suit and required more focus on her part. On the backside of the page, she jotted down, for future reference, her interpretation of the tale so far:

 _As a child, Booth had conflicting feelings about Marianne's leaving: he grieved and longed for her / he was angry and hated her. This resulted in an internal conflict that went unresolved and which manifested later in his relationship with girls as follows: he was attracted to girls who, like his mother, needed rescuing (white knight syndrome?) /he was attracted to girls who, like his mother, were unavailable (at least initially). Vic is the active aspect (chasing, seeking out the lost mother) while Tim is the passive aspect (enduring, waiting for the lost mother to return). Since neither strategy arises from a unified self, the relationships unavoidably fail._

She scanned what she had written, and decided she had summarized her conclusions in an adequate fashion. She added page six, face down, to the pile on her desk, and took up the story once again.

A Tale of Twin Booths, cont'd

The college years rolled around, and though the twins were not on the best of terms, they did not enroll in different universities, or even, in choosing their residence hall, opt for other roommates. Whether it was because they had dim recollections of the happy days when they'd been as one, or because they complemented each other in ways they hardly understood, they felt bound to remain together. It came as no surprise to anyone that Vic chose criminal justice as his field of concentration or that Tim decided to major in psychology. They completed their degrees in the standard four year time-span, went on to serve in the military — Vic as a combatant, Tim as a mental-health specialist — and upon honorable discharge, the young men found employment with the FBI. Vic rose rapidly to the position of special agent in charge of homicide investigation while Tim, upon earning a master's degree in psychology, was assigned work as a profiler.

Rents in the D. C. area being what they were, the twins decided that, financially-speaking, it made more sense to share an apartment than to live apart. As, increasingly, they began to investigate murders together, their living arrangement had the added benefit of allowing them to take their work home in the evenings. For the first time in years, the brothers found themselves working toward a common goal, and in the process, each discovered in the other reasons for admiration and respect. When they were out in the field, Tim appreciated his brother's physical dominance, his speed and agility in pursuit, his sharp eye-sight and steady hand with a gun while, in the interrogation room, Vic's imposing presence and aura of barely-controlled aggression were an undeniable asset. Similarly, Vic valued Tim's ability to calm and comfort victims and witnesses at gruesome crime scenes, his empathic manner in delivering terrible news to the victims' families, and his insights into the criminal mind. Not infrequently, Tim's compassionate approach to interrogation, particularly of child suspects and witnesses, produced better results than Vic could manage with his more forceful technique. They balanced each other's weaknesses as well: when Vic lost his temper and resorted to violence, Tim was the one to restrain him, and when Tim's over-identification with a potential subject threatened to blind him to that person's guilt, Vic was the one to snap him out of it. All in all, they made excellent partners and enjoyed working together as a team.

The personal side of their life together was another story. In regards to the women in their life, the patterns they had developed in high school remained unchanged. Tim had a number of female friends and colleagues who called on him for a heart-to-heart whenever they felt the need for a sympathetic ear, and Vic had a series of brief monogamous relationships with women who, in the main, all conformed to a recognizable type: they were beautiful, professional women whose careers were central to their identity, women who took pride in being financially self-supporting, ambitious women for whom marriage and children were questions rather than inevitabilities, women succeeding in traditional male jobs without sacrificing sexiness or style, women uninhibited about sex and unapologetic about it to boot; women, in short, who were very hard-to-get.

Vic's most important relationship up until that time had occurred while the brothers were in the military. Rebecca had been a graduate student at the period, and so not yet proven in her chosen field, but she'd had plans for her future, and those plans hadn't necessarily included a husband, even when she found herself pregnant. Vic had wanted very badly for that relationship to work out, and not only for the sake of the child. He was happier with Rebecca than he had been with any of his previous flames, and he really thought he could put his days of chasing skirt behind him, if she would agree to be his wife.

But Rebecca fell prey to the same niggling dissatisfaction that all Vic's women experienced. Like so many of her predecessors, she brought her doubts and sense of vague disquiet to Tim. "I just don't understand him!" she told her lover's twin. "It's like he's not wholly present, not fully engaged. I sometimes feel I can't get through to him. He listens, but he doesn't really hear me. Do you know what I mean? There's so much I love about him: he's handsome, attentive, reliable, fun-loving, sexy…" She shook her head sadly, her pain and confusion obvious. "But, Tim… I hate to say this… sometimes, it really seems he doesn't have a heart."

Tim held her loosely while she drenched his shoulder with her tears. He wanted to tell her that _he_ had a heart which was hers for the taking, if only she'd ask. It wasn't much of a prize, as it was still broken and bleeding from previous wounds but if she would take it into her loving care, he was almost sure it would heal in time. He had no illusions about the attractiveness of such an offer, however, so instead he assured her that, yes, indeed, his brother had a heart, a very fragile heart that was guarded about with a hard, protective shell; _that_ was the heart he offered her, a very real, beating heart. She would need patience and persistence to break through the barrier, but Tim was practically certain it could be done.

Perhaps Rebecca did not feel up to the challenge of reclaiming Vic's heart. She had a baby on the way, after all, a new life already guaranteed to drain much of her limited resources of patience and energy; there was no guarantee she would have anything left over for Vic. Or, perhaps she doubted her ability to endure or simply despaired of success despite her best efforts. The only thing the twins knew with absolute certainty was that she had decided to decline what Vic offered.

"What'd I tell you?" Vic said, bitterly. "Woman leave. It's what they do."

They'd been living in D. C. for a while when Tessa Jankow caught Vic's eye. She was the complete package: a lawyer with a prestigious firm, she had a gorgeous face, wavy blond hair down to her waist, a tall, slender figure, and legs that didn't stop. She was hot as all get-out, too, as sexy in her career-wear suits as in Vic's borrowed shirt. While she often stayed over, she had her own place, and wasn't in the least possessive or demanding. While perfect in many respects, Tessa didn't hold Vic long. He tired of her first, and she was perceptive enough to pick up on it. One evening, she took Tim aside and asked him, "What's up with Vic? He seems withdrawn lately, as if his mind is elsewhere. He looks like he's listening to me, but I don't think he really hears what I'm saying. Are you guys working an important case, or something?" When Tim told her no, there was nothing work-related to account for Vic's behavior, she went on, "You don't think I've put on weight, or anything like that, do you? I mean, is it anything I've done? Or, haven't done?"

Tim could have told her that Vic's distraction had nothing to do with her, personally. The calamity had already happened, Tessa just hadn't been informed of it yet. That calamity had a name, and Tessa had been introduced to the woman bearing that name without once suspecting she was meeting her boyfriend's ideal woman: Dr. Temperance Brennan.


	4. Chapter 4 Calamity Eve

**What He Offered**

 **Chapter 4: Calamity Eve**

Bones took her pencil in hand and circled the word "calamity" multiple times, making the word look like the eye of a category five hurricane, which was only fitting as it indicated, according to the dictionary, an "event causing great and often sudden damage or distress; a disaster." What in the world could Booth have been thinking, using such a designation for her? To whom had she caused distress? What devastation had she wrought? It was somewhat mollifying to find herself described, in the same paragraph, as his "ideal woman," but that flattering phrase did not quite erase the negative connotations of "calamity," which he had after all used _twice_ , as though for added emphasis. She resolved the problem to her temporary satisfaction by hypothesizing that it was Dr. Cameron, in a misguided attempt to add drama, who was responsible for the word choice. She made an executive decision to absolve Booth completely.

On a whim, she turned back a page to the paragraph containing the description of Booth's "type" of woman to see if those of his girlfriends with whom she was acquainted fit the bill. Rebecca and Tessa she accepted as givens. In the margin, she listed: Cam Saroyan, Dr. Catherine Bryar, and Hannah Burley. She decided to add Agent Payton Perotta as well; she wasn't sure anything had ever come of it, but there had been a mutual attraction there for certain. She then compared what she knew of each woman against the profile: Cam? check; Catherine? check; Hannah? check; Perotta? check. As for herself, she could say, eschewing false modesty, that she was the _nec plus ultra_ in each category. So, yes, she could confirm that Booth did have a discernible 'type.'

The tale had previously suggested that Booth was also drawn to the "damsel in distress" kind of female. She racked her brain to identify some woman in Booth's past who played that role for him, but she came up empty. It was no doubt Dr. Cameron's influence at work again. As an author herself, she recognized that, at times, plots required the creation of secondary characters for no other purpose than to serve as counterpoint to the principles. Dr. Phil (or should that be Dr. Fill?) had identified the need for Tim to have an 'ideal woman' of his own in order to maintain narrative balance, and so had supplied one. In the margin, she wrote: _good going, Dr. C!_

Having no further observations to make, she resumed her reading.

The Tale of Twin Booths, cont'd

The calamity, as Tim referred to it, had occurred just over a year before. The twins had found themselves in need of help on an investigation that was going nowhere, and one of Vic's former lovers, Cam Saroyan, had recommended the services of Dr. Temperance Brennan, a world-renowned forensic anthropologist. The information they gathered about her painted an impressive portrait: relatively young, demonstrably a genius, universally respected, a leader in her field with a brilliant career, and possibly a Nobel Prize or two, in her future. If she'd been a professional sports figure, the press would have called her a 'generational talent.' Vic's antennae shot up; this woman had definite romantic potential. Tim found himself hoping against hope that she wasn't pretty.

And, she wasn't, not at all. They had decided to seek her out at one of her lectures, and, even from the back of the hall, they could see she was absolutely stunning: a nicely curved body, round in all the right places, a beautifully shaped head with a strong jaw, a mobile mouth, a straight, dainty nose, and eyes…! Those eyes of hers, such a gorgeous blue from afar, but up close, the iris would reveal itself to have one inner ring of gold flecked with amber and an outer ring of greenish-blue; enchanting. Tim spared his brother a look; sure enough, Vic was standing there mesmerized, his mouth hanging open like a lunatic's. And, that was not the end of it: she addressed the audience with superb self-possession, speaking with an authority beyond her years, striding across the stage with obvious self-assurance. Later, when she joined them in the aisle, she held her chin high and looked Vic dead in the eye, undaunted and even somewhat amused. Vic was toast.

Tim knew that his brother's track record with women was stellar, and that he'd risen to many a difficult challenge in the past, but this time, he felt that Vic had bitten off much more than he could chew. "Forget it," was his advice. "She's way out of your league. I'm talking way, way out."

"Yeah," Vic said, sliding back in his recliner, crossing his legs at the ankle, and lacing his hands behind his head. "That's one of the things I like about her. I'm feeling it, Tim. I think this is it. She's a keeper."

"Didn't you hear Cam? Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results."

"If we're going to be trading stock phrases, try this one on for size: Faint heart never won fair lady. That's my new motto."

"I'm telling you, Vic. This isn't going to end well."

"Yeah? Well, go peddle your pessimism elsewhere, little bro, 'cause this is definitely going to happen. It may take a while, but I'm going to have that sweet little scientist eating out of my hand. Watch and learn."

"Let it go, Vic. Seriously. Quit while you're ahead."

"Stop with the doom and gloom, already. You sound like a broken record. Say, what you want to bet I bed her before we wrap up the case?"

"Vic, _you_ are a jackass."

"Yeah," he laughed, "but I'm a jackass with benefits."

Tim was glad, at first, that he hadn't taken Vic up on his bet. Dr. Brennan seemed to find his brother by turns irritating and intriguing, but one thing remained constant: she was attracted to him, so much so in fact that she never once noticed Tim trailing along behind them. That suited Tim down to the ground; he was more comfortable in the role of observer anyway. He watched them work together and saw a smooth give-and-take; she showed no signs of snobbery or condescension, and Vic was on his very best behavior, charming, respectful, and flirty without going over the line. Tim began to suspect he had badly misjudged the situation when she inquired if Vic were already in a relationship; she was not only interested, she had made the first move. Vic played it cool, but Tim could see his brother's excitement; it was all going well, even better than he'd anticipated. Vic had this one in the bag.

And then, Dr. Brennan put a foot wrong (or rather, a fist) and Vic had been instructed to fire her from the case. The three of them had gone to a pool hall where, once again, Tim was the odd man out. Vic and Dr. Brennan took seats at the bar, while Tim, alone at a nearby table, studied their interplay. They were so clearly taken with each other; with every additional shot of tequila, they leaned in closer, gazed at each other longer, smiled more warmly. She didn't even seem upset to learn she and her team had been let go. Instead, she welcomed the news. She looked up at Vic from under her lashes, and crooked her finger at him. "That means we can have sex," she said in a throaty voice. It was at that exact moment that Tim felt his hair stand on end.

He couldn't have said how, but Tim suddenly knew for a certainty that Dr. Temperance Brennan was a player. She had sized Vic up as a fun-loving guy, cute, cocky, probably good in the sack; in short, primo one-night-stand material. She didn't need to worry about his feelings: he wasn't a deep, soulful guy looking for love and commitment. He was a good-time Charlie. They'd have a few laughs, engage in some mutually-satisfying sex, and part friends in the morning. No harm, no foul. Maybe, if they were particularly compatible between the sheets, they could arrange another tumble or two, or three, but that would be the extent of it. Vic Booth did not figure in Dr. Temperance Brennan's long-term plans.

All Tim could think was: I have to stop them, I can't let this happen. He raced out and found them just outside the exit door, sheltering under the overhang, waiting for the cab to appear. Yes, she was definitely calling the shots, leaning into Vic, raising her face to his, bringing her lips closer. Vic was spellbound, drunk with liquor and desire. In a panic, Tim slipped behind his brother and said, "I have something to confess: I have a gambling problem, but I'm getting it under control… I feel like this might be going somewhere…" Brennan kissed Vic then, a kiss that was to be the entirety of their affair, both " _hello_ , there!" and "good-bye." They broke apart, she ran off, laughing, to the waiting cab, and, after a last brief exchange, she was driven off into the night.

"What the hell just happened?" Vic asked, as Tim came up beside him.

"Sorry, bro. I had to. I told her the truth about you."

"Yeah?" Vic staggered slightly, blinking rapidly against the falling rain. "What truth is that?"

"I told her you wanted more from her than just one night, that you thought she was a keeper."

"So… what's wrong with that?"

Tim exhaled in relief; he hadn't misrepresented his brother's feelings. " 'Happily ever after' is not her thing, Vic. She's a 'love 'em and leave 'em' kind of gal. She didn't want what you were offering."

"That right?" Vic slurred, as Tim steered him back to the bar. "And, what was that, exactly?"

"Your heart, bro. Your guarded, broken heart."


	5. Chapter 5 Calamity Day

**What He Offered**

 **Chapter 5 Calamity Day**

The phone pinged, loud in the silence, startling. Bones really hoped it wasn't a text from Booth; she wasn't kindly disposed toward him at the moment. Fortunately, it was no more than the monthly reminder of payment due from her wireless carrier.

She was glad of the interruption; she wasn't quite prepared to read on. She was smarting; it surprised her, how much it stung her, even now, to see in black and white how much he'd disliked her. She corrected herself: how _ambivalent_ his feelings had been. "Vic" had liked her just fine, but then, as she'd once told Angela in disgust, men always did. Unlike most women, men had use for her as a sexual partner.

In high school, she'd ached to be liked, to be accepted into the crowd, to fit in, but she had never managed it: the girls thought her weird and off-putting, and the boys were repelled by her nerdy awkwardness. It wasn't until college than men started to notice her, and it didn't take a genius to realize they weren't particularly interested in her brain.

In grad school, Michael Stires came into her life, and changed it forever. Handsome, charming, unscrupulous Michael! A line from Shakespeare's Hamlet popped into her head: _One may smile, and smile, and be a villain_. It had taken her a very long time to see the truth of him, far too long, in fact. But then, as Booth always told her, reading people was not her forte.

As good a professor as he was in the classroom, as brilliant a mentor as he was in the field, it was in the bedroom that Michael was undisputed master and she his willing apprentice. He'd had scores of women before they met, and he was nothing if not generous in sharing all the knowledge he'd amassed. He taught her the exquisite pleasure her own body offered her as well as those she had a right to demand as her due from any prospective lover and the wonderful and varied pleasures she could bestow in her turn. He would not permit any shyness in matters of the flesh: together they explored if not all the positions pictured in the Kama Sutra, then, a goodly number of them. Looking back, she thought there were probably many skilled courtesans who had been less carefully-instructed in the erotic arts than she. Michael had made it clear from the outset: what they engaged in was strictly of the body, a physical discipline, like karate or yoga. No strings, never any strings.

So, yes, she could make men like her. With her training, she could enslave them, if she so chose: giving great sex was indeed power. And, she had wanted Booth to like her, so very much. So she had come out to him (or was that come 'on' …) and it was all going so well, until he dropped that bombshell about 'it going somewhere.' She had no experience with relationships that lasted, that was not her area of expertise, she would flounder about like a fish out of water, and more than likely fail abysmally. That would not be fair to either of them. She had covered over her panic with a merry smile, and jumped into that taxi as into a lifeboat. But, she couldn't resist that one last look over her shoulder at him, standing slightly off-kilter in the rain.

The next morning, she was thoroughly embarrassed, and grateful that her vicious hangover gave her the excuse to hide her eyes behind over-sized sunglasses. But that was probably not what Booth remembered. With some trepidation, she read on.

The Tale of Twin Booths, cont'd

The next morning, Vic had a major hangover and not the least recollection of Tim's confession. For his part, Tim didn't feel the need to share his insight into Temperance Brennan's true character; she'd been fired. Chances of their running into her again were remote. Except, suddenly, they weren't: Vic was told to hire the Jeffersonian team back again. For Tim, the reinstatement was the worst possible news, but Vic was psyched. He burst into Brennan's office, trumpeting, "You're back, baby!" as if he expected her to jump for joy. That was far from the case, as anyone with the least sensitivity to body language would have realized. Brennan was royally peeved, and it didn't help matters that Vic, in his disappointment at her distinct lack of enthusiasm, assumed a curt and imperious tone with her. Later, while the FBI and Jeffersonian techs searched for evidence in the trunk of the prime suspect's car, Vic tried to make nice, but Brennan was annoyed, and said as much. When pressed as to why, she put her bad mood down to Vic's having plied her with liquor the previous evening in order to fire her, but that was so lame an explanation, Vic immediately called her on it. She did not deign to reply, leaving Vic as much in the dark as before.

Tim understood her anger very well. Having had a chance to evaluate what had led up to their fiasco of an evening, she must have decided that Vic had misled her about his expectations. Whether he had done so intentionally or not was immaterial. The fact was he had misrepresented himself, and now she found herself in an awkward position. Knowing he wanted more than casual sex, she couldn't respond to his light flirtation as she had the previous day — she didn't want to offer false encouragement — and it irked her that he couldn't, or wouldn't, see that things had changed. So, she turned on him, becoming ever more ill-humored, scornful, lofty and insulting. Vic, completely clueless as regards her beef, felt subject to unwarranted attack, and grew progressively hotter and hotter under the collar, until inevitably he snapped.

Looking back, Tim often wondered what might have happened if he had told Vic what he suspected about Brennan before the three met up again. Might the upward spiraling of their tempers and the consequent explosion have been avoided? It was useless to speculate. At the end of his tether, seething with frustration and hurt, Vic grabbed Brennan by the upper arm and ushered her bodily from the conference room where they'd been speaking to the victim's mother, and Brennan, her outrage at its peak, hauled off and slapped him across the cheek with all her might.

Watching the two of them face off, Tim thought he had never seen two people so livid with each other, two people, who, on the surface, seemed totally different, but who, underneath it all, were exactly alike. Betrayed, the both of them: Brennan, feeling duped, sexually frustrated, and wrong-footed, and Vic, feeling provoked, blind-sided and dismissed. Like Cassandra of old, Tim had seen disaster coming and had given timely warning, all to no avail. He took no pleasure in being right.

"Did you see that?" Vic asked Tim, as Brennan swept up her trench coat and stormed from the room.

"Yeah, Vic, sorry." He gestured to his twin's reddened cheekbone. "Hurt much?"

"Like a bastard. What the hell was her problem, anyway?"

"It's complicated, bro. Like I said before, let it go. Women leave, right? That's what you always say."

"Damn straight," Vic said, moving his jaw gingerly side to side. "Damn…"


	6. Chapter 6 Calamity Aftermath

**What He Offered**

 **Chapter 6: Calamity Aftermath**

Brennan couldn't put the page down fast enough. It landed face-side-up and askew on top of the otherwise neat pile of paper she'd been amassing. She raised a hand to her face, and felt the flush along her left cheekbone. How apposite: his red cheek then, her red cheek now. She hadn't so much as left the Hoover building that day when the adrenaline surge that had swept her up like a tsunami ebbed away entirely, leaving her unsteady on her feet, shaking and weak. She had sunk down on the exterior concrete stairs, her heart pounding, trying to stem another rising tide, this time of tears.

Her wretched temper! She had heard it said that most children pass through a period known as the "terrible twos," but she had been terrible from birth and had never looked back. She had driven first her parents, and then her schoolteachers, to distraction with her stubbornness, hostility and tantrums. The school psychologists diagnosed her as having "anger management issues," arising from the fact that she was not simply smarter than her age-mates, she had an IQ higher than most of her teachers. No one could keep up with her intellectually, and she was bored, restless and frustrated at the others' inability to understand what she was trying to communicate. Brennan remembered vividly a day in second grade when, during art period, she had drawn a beautiful air-borne craft and had proudly written beneath it "zepplin," only to have her teacher stand over her shoulder and instruct her, kindly, to change the word to "blimp." Tempe's response had been to tear her paper into tiny little pieces and to send those pieces flying. It had meant a trip to the principle's office yet again.

The schools' administrators had all conceded that Tempe was a child with special needs, and deserved to be in a talented-and-gifted program, but funds were perennially in short supply, and it was felt that providing specialists for developmentally-challenged students was a higher priority than enhancing the education of those who already possessed significant intellectual advantages. They recommended that Tempe be sent to private school, or that her parents expose her to additional educational opportunities, perhaps through local museums or libraries. In the end, it had been Max himself who had taken Tempe under his wing, and introduced her to the fascinating worlds of science and mathematics. Her father, who never talked down to her, never imposed his own interests, never dismissed her questions. Her beloved father, who left her…

To be fair, Max couldn't have known that he'd be leaving her in the care of a series of foster fathers who would find her completely unintelligible, who mistook her unwitting tactlessness for disrespect and her serious questions as challenges. He thought he was leaving her to the kind supervision of her brother, and if Russ didn't always understand her, at least he would never have grabbed her roughly by the upper arm, jerked her from her seat at the dinner table, frog-marched her out of the room and slammed the door in her face, yelling, "Go to your room, and don't come out until you learn some manners," or something equally baffling.

And, Booth couldn't have known that, in succumbing to his own frustration with her, he'd evoked the parade of fathers who had gravely disappointed her. He had been right to say, "I'm not your father," but in that moment, he had been the perfect stand-in for all those other men, and she had lashed out at him with all the fury she'd bottled up over the years. "I _hate_ you," she had told him, the whipping boy for all those men beyond the sound of her voice. "And, I will _never_ work with you again!"

She resigned herself to reading in the subsequent pages that, after Calamity Day as he phrased it, she had refused to take his calls for over a year because she despised him. If so, he would be wrong. What did people say…? It's not _you,_ it's _me._ She thought she had that right. The truth of it was, she hadn't wanted to see him again because, on the one hand, she was ashamed of her actions, and, on the other, she feared the powerful pull he exerted on her.

She sighed, and resumed her reading.

A Tale of Twin Booths, cont'd

The calamity, besides being unfortunate in itself, had the additional unpleasant consequence for Vic of resonating with their childhood traumas. As with their mother's departure, Vic was caught entirely off-guard by Brennan's abrupt refusal to collaborate on any future investigations; given their spectacular initial success, he had taken it for granted that they had a long, productive association ahead of them. He also couldn't fathom what had caused her overnight change of face. "I just don't get it," Vic would say to Tim. "One day, she's a sex kitten, purring and playful, and the next, she's a feral cat, all snarls and sharp claws."

Tim shrugged. "It's like you told her: she's cold-hearted."

Vic laughed wry. "That's what you always say about me."

"Yeah, well, the two of you are a pair."

"I wish," Vic sighed. "Tim, tell me the truth: was it something I did? Did I drive her away somehow?"

Vic indulged in introspection so rarely that Tim was speechless for a moment. Then, seeing that his brother was anxious for an answer, he said, "No, Vic, it wasn't your fault. You didn't do anything wrong."

"Because, you know, looking back…" He couldn't quite meet his brother's eyes. "I could be a real bratty kid sometimes. I didn't mean anything by it, but I was headstrong, and disobedient, and, if I didn't get my way, I made a God-awful fuss. Remember my melt downs?" He stopped to clear his throat. "You think maybe that's why Mom left?"

Tim swallowed hard, and blinked back tears. "No, Vic. If one of us was to blame, it was me. I was always hanging on her skirt, wanting her attention, crying at the smallest cut or scratch. She couldn't get anything done with me always underfoot. It was me." His voice cracked dangerously on those last three words, so he took a moment to collect himself. He had a question of his own to ask, and, as his twin was scarcely ever in a sharing frame of mind, he knew he had to take advantage, but getting the question out was hard. "You thought it was me, too, back when it happened, right?"

Vic let out a short laugh, completely devoid of humor. "Oh, yeah, big time. And, don't pretend you didn't blame me right back. You thought I was the devil's spawn. Don't deny it!"

"I won't, then. I feel bad about it now, though, hating you then. You were just a kid, doing kid things. We both were."

They subsided moodily into private thoughts, each reliving in memory aspects of those hellish days. After a fairly long silence, Vic took a final swig of his beer, set the bottle down on the end table, and said, "Tim… Temperance Brennan, she remind you of anyone we know?"

Tim didn't try to hide his grimace. "I make it a point to think of that woman as little as possible."

"Yeah, yeah, I get you don't like her. Answer the question."

"Well, give me a minute, then." He flipped through his mental photo album for pictures of Brennan: lecturing at the university, standing in the bull pen delivering her incredible findings, her pony tail swinging as she preceded them down a dark corridor, her fist smashing into the judge's nose once, and then again, her hand slamming into Vic's face… Tim felt his jaw go slack.

"You see it now," Vic said, with a satisfied nod. "Let me tell you, when she socked me like that, clear out of the blue, all that rage, that invective, it was Dad all over again. I went from flame to ice to flame again, all in short order."

"I'm amazed you didn't take her head off!"

"It was the shock, I expect. Paralyzed me. Used to happen with Dad, too."

"Jeez, Vic…" Tim was at a loss for what to say. Eventually, he settled on, "Well, one good thing came out of it, at least: it got her out of your system."

Vic snorted, grimly amused. "You'd think so, wouldn't you?"


	7. Chapter 7

**What He Offered**

 **Chapter 7: Casework**

It was a wonder, now, to Bones that all those times she'd been moved to assure Booth that he was _not_ his father, he hadn't answered: Maybe not, but _you_ are. She had never made the connection between her own assault on him and his father's repeated beatings, not even when they'd reviewed together what he'd learned of the legacy of his abuse in therapy. She imagined that blow on "Calamity Day" must have felt to Booth like being struck in a particularly sore spot, or taking a punch to an already fractured bone. And yet, he'd never reproached her, at least, not unless this passage counted as a reproach, which she didn't think it did. She shook her head; the damage we do, all unwitting…

The phone rang: call from the Zoo Squad leader. "Hello, Booth."

"Hey, there, Bones. Listen, Christine is trying to convince me she can share her goldfish with Hank, but that doesn't seem right to me…"

 _Goldfish?_ Where in the world would Christine have gathered goldfish? Some aquariums had shallow water tables complete with small sea creatures for visiting children to explore, but she didn't remember such an exhibit at the zoo. And, then she understood: whole wheat fish-shaped crackers. "What's this really about, Booth?"

A silence on the other end of the line, then, "I guess I just wanted to check you're still talking to me."

"That's not something you ever need to worry about. The reverse? Maybe."

"I'm shaking in my boots. Okay, so… thanks. No, Christine, Mommy can't talk right now…" Call ended.

Mommy still had a lot of pages to get through, and not a lot of remaining free time. She picked up the next page, and read.

A Tale of Twin Booths, cont'd

Vic knew that Tim was right about Temperance Brennan, but he simply couldn't let go. She hadn't given him a chance, not a proper chance, and he couldn't give up without another try. It was not in his character to surrender the chase, and so, periodically over the next few months, he would swallow his pride and phone the Jeffersonian, hoping to entice her back with an interesting case, only to be stonewalled every time by her assistant, Jack or Zach, he could never remember which.

For his part, Tim did not miss Brennan nor wish her back in their life. And yet, he found himself wondering if there were more to her story than he'd suspected. It was Vic's teasing jab about his reputedly having as cold a heart as Brennan's that had set his psychologist's mind in motion. The two were a pair, he'd said so himself; was the resemblance merely superficial, or was there something in Brennan's past, as there was in Vic's, to account for her behavior? In the interests of fairness, he decided to look into the matter, and, in the end, didn't need to look far. It was all there in her file for anyone to read: Brennan had, in effect, been orphaned as a teen. Her parents had gone missing some fifteen years before, and their fate had never been determined. Her parents' disappearance had resulted in the further critical loss of her siblings, an elder brother, Russ and her identical twin sister, Joy Ruth. A legal adult, Russ had gone off to find his fame and fortune, leaving his sisters to the tender mercies of the foster care system. The sisters had, apparently, been placed with different foster families, and had never lived together again. The lack of any further information regarding Joy Ruth and Russ seemed to indicate that all three Brennans had been making their way alone in the world for some time.

Having read her file, Tim could have kicked himself: he should have recognized the signs. It was now evident to him that Temperance Brennan had a heart every bit as broken and guarded as Vic's. He was loathe to reveal his discovery to his twin, but after the harsh things he'd said about the woman, he felt he owed it to Brennan to share what he'd learned. He should not have been surprised to discover that Vic knew the story already, that he was, indeed, vastly better informed about the beautiful young scientist. That was Vic all over: knocked down, but not out. Unable to pursue her in person, he had redirected his focus into learning everything he could about her. He had even started his own personal file where he conserved the printed matter his research turned up: newspaper clippings, flyers announcing public lectures, photocopies of her more recent scholarly articles, and the like. When her novel, Bred in the Bone, was published, he was first in line at the bookstore to purchase a copy.

It was reading the novel that convinced Vic to make one last ditch effort to win Brennan back, if not to him, then to the FBI. "You can't say I'm not the inspiration for Andy Lister," Vic insisted, when Tim finally finished the last page and put the book down. "He's got smarts, enormous sex appeal, and a powerful vibe of simmering aggression under his cool exterior. She based Lister on me all right."

"Loosely based, _very_ loosely. He's probably a composite of any number of people. And, besides, fictional characters in the police procedural genre are functions of the plot, not the other way around."

As usual, Vic wasn't listening. He was already busy devising a strategy to do an end-run around the blocking assistant to insure some face-time with the evasive anthropologist. It took considerable tactical planning and inter-office cooperation, but it worked: Vic finally found himself in the same room as Dr. Temperance Brennan. She made no pretense about being happy to see him, and immediately penetrated his ruse of riding to her rescue, but he had snagged her attention for at least as long as it took to drive her from the airport where he'd had her ambushed into the city, and he determined to make the most of that time.

Despite what he'd learned about her background, Tim still considered Brennan abrasive, and had remained in the car while Vic played out his charade. She didn't seem to register his presence in the back seat when she swung ungraciously into the car and slammed the door shut with unnecessary force. For Tim, it was like watching a replay of that ill-fated day: it started out with Vic trying to charm her, Brennan not having any of it, leading to Vic becoming snarky, and Brennan demanding in no uncertain terms to be let out of the car. When Vic complied, there ensued a literal chase, with Vic running after the irascible scientist and having to agree, if only to buy time, to the terms she stipulated for her assistance. They returned to the car, and the spiral began again: she condescended, he sneered, she mocked, he belittled, and on and on, like cranky children or, which was more to the point, two adults fighting an unwelcome sexual attraction.

That became the pattern for their interaction: Brennan aggressively keeping Vic at arm's length with snide comments and thinly-veiled insults, and Vic reacting defensively with dismissive remarks about "squints" and unsubtle attempts at physical intimidation. In their intense focus on each other, they seemed entirely unaware of Tim's presence when he was with them in the field or at the lab. By and large, it wasn't a harmonious collaboration but, as with their first case, it was producing outstanding results, and that went a long way toward reconciling the ill-assorted co-investigators to the discomfort.

The first time Brennan deigned to acknowledge Tim was when he was obliged to interrupt her while the three of them were at the Eller home informing the bereaved parents that they had recovered their daughter's remains. Brennan had been on the point of telling the grieving couple the unvarnished truth about Clio's painful death when Tim had horned in and told a comforting lie instead. She had shot him a malevolent look, and later outside the house, she had challenged him, asserting that the Ellers were entitled to the facts, which only confirmed Tim in the belief that the woman knew next to nothing about humane interaction. He had not scrupled to tell her that, as well as a few other home truths about her social skills. She went back to ignoring him.

As she had done before, Brennan went rogue — at least she limited herself to threats instead of actual assault this time — with the result that the case was reassigned to Agent Furst. In the few hours remaining before they had to turn the files over, Vic, Tim and Brennan worked relentlessly to find justice for Clio. Late in the evening, Vic requested Brennan join him in his office, but when she arrived, Vic had stepped out for a moment, and it was Tim she found sitting behind the desk, watching a video of Clio and her family in happier days. Given their earlier testy exchange, she approached the desk gingerly. "You wanted to see me?"

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her no, he didn't want to see her, that, in fact, he'd be perfectly happy never to set eyes on her again. Instead, the psychologist in him spotted an opening, and he said, "You don't want to talk about family?" When she didn't answer, he tried again. "Temperance, partners share things. It builds trust."

She didn't give an inch. "Since when are we partners?"

He gave up the effort. No one could say he hadn't tried. "I apologize for the presumption."

At the eleventh hour (almost literally), Brennan put together all the puzzle pieces, and, knowing time to be of the essence, raced out alone to apprehend the murderer and secure the crime scene against destruction. When Vic and Tim arrived, she was holding the killer at gunpoint, a bit shaken but otherwise in complete control. Later, at the cemetery, when the three of them were standing on a small rise looking down at the mourners, Tim brought himself to acknowledge her invaluable contributions to the case. "They would still be wondering what happened to their daughter, if not for you."

She looked thoughtful for a moment, and then, as if she had taken his advice to heart, volunteered the information about her parents' disappearance and the burden of not knowing their fate.

In exchange for this confidence, Vic offered one of his own: he admitted to having killed fifty individuals as a sniper, and of hoping, as a recompense, to remove at least that many murderers from the streets.

In typical Brennan fashion, she laughed at Vic's resolution. "I don't think there's some cosmic balance sheet!" At her scornful inflection, Vic bowed his head, embarrassed, and Tim, seeing it, felt he could never like this woman, no matter how many murderers she busted single-handedly. And then, a very odd thing happened: Brennan sobered and said, in apparent sincerity, "I'd like to help with that." Vic recovered sufficiently to make light of accepting her offer, and Tim thought for the first time that there might be hope for Temperance Brennan, after all.


	8. Chapter 8: Compromise

**What He Offered**

 **Chapter 8: Compromise**

It irritated the novelist in Bones that she had not anticipated the introduction of Joy Ruth as a character in her own right. Every worthwhile story needed a twist now and again, and this one had been a downright curve ball. Perhaps her books had been a good influence on Booth. He did tend to read them carefully. He might have picked up some narrative tricks in the process. But then, she thought, no, it was far more likely Dr. Cameron's doing. In her experience, psychologists showed a marked propensity for storytelling. Look at Sweets, for example: he had written what was tantamount to fiction about her and Booth. The rewrite had been something of an improvement, but a flight of fancy nonetheless. If she were given to betting, she'd wager that Dr. Cameron was a would-be author of lurid thrillers with a number of unpublished manuscripts sitting in his desk drawers at home. She decided she would have to have him for dinner sometime soon — she would enjoy eating his liver with onions.

She returned to her reading.

The Tale of Twin Booths, cont'd

And so, Brennan and the Booths put the calamity successfully behind them, and set about finding their footing as professional partners in earnest. Dealing with Brennan was, at first, a tricky thing; Vic and Tim knew her mercurial nature by now, and walked on eggshells around her, doing their best not to set off her uncertain temper. After a while, she stopped glaring at them quite so much, and even, to their amazement, offered the occasional word of praise and token of trust. She was still something of a liability in speaking with the bereaved, but more and more, she followed Tim's lead and his advice to good effect.

It didn't take long for Tim to become, once again, the unnoticed third wheel. Watching Vic and Brennan together, Tim had the impression that fate had pushed the reset button: the two of them were back to interacting as they had before Calamity Eve. Vic deferred to her on matters technical and scientific, supported her when she was challenged, and protected her in situations ranging from dicey to merely importunate. In time, he felt comfortable enough around her even to flash his "charm smile" and rib her good-naturedly. Without Tim having to warn him, he was meticulous in not crossing the invisible line between colleague and suitor. Brennan interpreted his comportment as respect for her unspoken boundaries, and relaxed. It appeared they had, somehow, reached a tacit agreement, to wit: he would not chase her romantically provided she did not run from him professionally. The underlying tension was not resolved, but as a stop-gap measure, the compromise worked.

As a psychologist, Tim was aware that what cannot be expressed directly finds alternate ways to make itself known, so he was not surprised that, however little Vic acted on it, or however categorically Brennan denied it, the two couldn't entirely hide their mutual attraction. Vic grew irritable and overprotective when eligible men showed an all-too-natural interest in Brennan. With apparent nonchalance, he often stood too close to her, leaned too far into her, snagged every opportunity to steer her by the shoulders or the elbow, or clap her cordially on the back. Brennan accepted all of this without complaint, even with a certain complacency.

For her part, Brennan showed an unhealthy fascination with Vic's personal life. Out of nowhere, she would bring up Tessa, ask how she was doing, how they spent their time together. Upon meeting Amy Morton, a perky public defender with whom the Booths had a history, she even asked Vic off-handedly if he were going to be dating both lawyers at once. Listening to this line of questioning, Tim couldn't decide if she was reassuring herself that Vic's romantic attentions were safely directed elsewhere or if she was trying in a very roundabout way to experience being his girlfriend vicariously. He decided it could well be a little of both.

Later that year, on Christmas day, Tim had his strongest experience yet of déjà vu. He and Vic were at Wong Foo's waiting for Parker to be dropped off, and, in advance of their imminent departure, Tim had excused himself to use the facilities. When he returned, he found Brennan had taken his seat one stool over from Vic at the bar. They had assumed the same positions as that night in the pool hall, with more distance between them admittedly, but with the same attitude. Vic's head was canted to one side, and he met her unwavering gaze with a brazen mix of mockery, respect and deep affection. She had outdone herself that day, which for Temperance Brennan, star of the forensic world, was saying something: she had solved a decades-old murder, righted an old woman's crooked world, and gifted the woman's granddaughter with a key to unlock a brilliant future. Vic's look said it all: I never doubted you'd do it, because _you_ are the best, baby, and you are all mine — professionally. The secret pact held.

As time passed, and case after case was successfully closed, Vic and Brennan found another means of cementing their bond: they cut Tim out of their working relationship as much as possible. Increasingly, Brennan accompanied Vic into the field, and if Tim was invited along, they made him feel like a useless appendage. They were united in downplaying the promptings of his gut instincts as "unsubstantiated speculation" and in dismissing his insights into criminal motivation as "pure guesswork." If he had a dime for every time Brennan announced, "I hate psychology," he could have retired to a tropical island before forty. The worst of it all was when Brennan, borrowing a favorite endearment of Angela's for her own mocking purpose, would look at him pityingly, and say, "Tim, sweetie…" He could have cheerfully strangled her then.

None of that mattered very much to Tim after the evening Brennan strode into Wong Foo, slid onto a bar stood next to Vic, and set a red file folder on the counter. "I want to ask you a favor," she said, addressing both Booths.

"Jeez," Tim muttered. He hadn't been enthusiastic about collaborating on the investigation into Max Kane's disappearance. "Another favor."

Brennan paid no heed to him, as per usual. "I wonder if you wouldn't mind taking a look at this." She tapped the red file folder.

"The file on your parents?" Vic asked. "Yeah… okay."

Because, of course, Tim thought sourly, Brennan had only to ask for Vic to do her bidding.

"You want to think about it? It's a pretty big favor."

Tim was momentarily distracted by the bartender, and as a result, lost some of the following exchange. The next thing he heard was Vic promise, "I'll take a look at it, see what they didn't give you, and get back to you on that."

She left shortly after. Vic set aside the _Sports Illustrated_ article he'd been skimming before her arrival, dragged the folder into position between them, and folded back the front cover. The first thing to catch their eye was a good-quality snapshot of an attractive, middle-aged couple. The man had silver-grey hair but few wrinkles surrounding his lively blue eyes and his mouth was curled in an engaging expression, while the woman was a brown-haired beauty with a youthful look to her and a loving smile on her lips: Mr. and Mrs. Brennan, obviously.

The photo under that was of a young girl, aged maybe thirteen or so, with her head tilted to one side as though lending her ear to the youngster whose pudgy hand on her shoulder was directing her attention somewhere off-camera with a pointed index finger. The child had her mother's dark hair, her father's light eyes, and a smile that seemed, to Tim at least, somewhat tentative, as though she was prepared to be pleased but not yet convinced she would be. That smile… Tim had seen that smile somewhere, and certainly not on Brennan's face. It hadn't been that long ago, either. The memory just eluded him. He shrugged; it would come back to him.

Given the foliage background and the blue-and-white striped folding chair in both pictures, the next candid portrait had clearly been taken the same day, maybe just moments afterward. The child was very likely the possessor of the pointing finger, and Vic laughed out loud to see her. " _That's_ my girl," he said, with a grin. There was no mistaking the youthful Temperance Brennan: she was sitting slouched in the deck chair, her arms crossed tightly across her budding chest, her eyes staring blue-fire defiance from under lowered brows and her mouth turned down in a very pronounced frown. "Isn't she something?"

Tim resisted the temptation to give his opinion of what, precisely, that "something" might be, and took up instead the portrait of the girl he now concluded was Joy Ruth. There was an unmistakable resemblance, but he would not have guessed, based on these pictures, that the girls were identical twins. It might have been the difference in facial expressions that distorted the similarities; perhaps if they were both scowling or both smiling, he would see it more. As it was, Joy Ruth looked like a sweet girl… Once again, the nagging sensation of having seen that face in the recent past tantalized him, but no, he couldn't place it.

Vic had finally set down the picture of the belligerent twin, and was shuffling through the remaining documents. "No picture of Russ," he said. "Too bad."

"So, Vic…" Tim was suddenly not as reluctant as he had been to do Brennan a solid. "How do you want to handle this? Divide and conquer? I'll look into locating the sister, if you take the brother."

Vic regarded his twin with a speculative look that held more than a hint of amusement. "You dog, you!" he said, punching Tim lightly in the shoulder. "Yeah, sure. What the hell. Go for it."


	9. Chapter 9: Chasing Joy

**What He Offered**

 **Chapter 9: Chasing Joy**

A quick glance at the wall clock informed Bones that she did not really have time to stop and turn back to passages that annoyed or intrigued her, but she couldn't resist. She re-read the presentation of the girls' photos. There had only been one, of course, the candid supposedly picturing Joy Ruth. She could see from the way Booth and Dr. Cameron had chosen to portray "Brennan" that they were setting up a dichotomy to match Vic and Tim's. "Brennan" would display the characteristics of the masculine aspect (cold, rational, aggressive, the mother as disciplinarian) while "Joy Ruth" would represent the feminine aspect (warm, emotional, submissive, the mother as comforter). As an author, she knew that "Brennan" and "Joy Ruth" were narrative constructs, largely determined by the requirements of the theme or plot, and not an attempt to paint an accurate portrait of the individuals who inspired them. Hadn't she repeated that to her team after every new release? And yet, they insisted on seeing themselves in her creations, to the point of offering "corrections." _She_ would not fall into that trap; she refused to take any parts of the tale personally.

That being said, she wondered why the words, "Tim, sweetie…" had been placed in her mouth. She had never used that endearment, mockingly or otherwise, to the best of her recollection. The paragraph evoked Lance Sweets quite strongly; she had often directed the cited comments and others like them to the FBI psychologist. Was this all a conscious homage to their deceased friend, a man whom Booth had once called something along the lines of the younger brother he'd never wanted, or was there something else intended? She conceded that she might also have been reading entirely too much between the lines. Time would tell. She turned the page.

A Tale of Twin Booths, cont'd

If he hadn't had physical proof in the form of that photo, Tim would have come to doubt Joy Ruth Brennan's very existence. Every trace he unearthed led nowhere. He had enough contacts and pulled enough strings to discover the name of the family who had fostered her for three years: Chase ( _seriously?_ Tim thought at the time). Her foster mother — _Please! Call me Cordy!_ — had been an amiable woman and something of a chatterbox into the bargain with, in the end, very little real information to impart. From her, he learned that Brennan and Joy Ruth had originally been placed in her home together, but it had proven impossible to keep them both. Joy Ruth — _always the two names as though hyphenated, mind you, never just the one! —_ was a calm, biddable girl, a bit withdrawn, it was true, but accommodating, never a moment's trouble, while Tempe, well…! Suffice it to say that Tempe was a disruptive influence in the household, and had had to be moved elsewhere for everyone's sake. _But mostly for poor, little Joy Ruth's, bless her heart._ Mrs. Chase had not had a letter or a phone call from her former foster daughter in years, so had no current address or number to give Tim, but she did pass on the names of some of Joy Ruth's high school friends as well as the name of the university she'd attended. These leads, too, failed to pan out. Tim was considering the drastic move of asking Angela to run a picture of Brennan's face through the DMV data base when Vic gave him new hope: Russ Brennan's contact information. A paroled criminal, Russ had been easy enough to find, but he, like Mrs. Chase, had completely lost track of Joy Ruth, and could tell Tim nothing about her current whereabouts, or even if she were still alive.

Ironically, it turned out that Tim's big break would result from Zach Addy's routine work in the Jeffersonian "limbo." The set of remains he was examining was revealed to belong to none other than Brennan's mother, Christine. An obvious homicide, the discovery allowed the Booths to open an investigation, which gave them access to documents they would not otherwise have seen. On the day Vic brought Russ to the lab to share with him and Brennan the information that their parents had been more than the inoffensive science teacher and bookkeeper they gave themselves out to be, Tim received the crucial missing piece of the puzzle: "Brennan" had not always been their family name. Originally, they had gone by the name of "Keenan." And, that was all it took.

That smile that had so tantalized his memory… It belonged to one J. R. Keenan, a lowly tech at the Jeffersonian Medico-Legal lab. Joy Ruth Brennan had been, incredibly, under their noses all along. Tim had probably walked past her at her computer, in the hall, entering and exiting the building hundreds of time, all without ever once suspecting her identity. So great was his initial disbelief, he didn't immediately approach her. He took advantage of Vic and Brennan's being out at a pig farm confronting Vince McVickers, a criminal acquaintance of Max and Ruth Keenan, to observe her from a distance, careful always to blend into the background as much as possible so as not to alarm her.

At a glance, no one would have confused her with Brennan: Joy Ruth had very dark, straight hair cut in a bob with long bangs that concealed her high forehead and eyebrows. It was hard to assess the exact shade of her eyes from afar, as she wore large, horn-rimmed glasses, but they were definitely light in color. She didn't appear to have Brennan's height, but that was likely due to her wearing ballet flats, hunching her shoulders and keeping her head down much of the time. There was no disguising that she was slimmer, more girlish in her figure, almost waif-like. A ruffly skirt peeked out from below her standard-issue blue lab coat, and a lacy white collar and a short strand of pearls could be glimpsed in the neck opening. One feature she did share with Brennan, and a clinching one: her gait. Due to an asymmetrical development of the hip, both sisters walked with a subtle swing to the left in their step. Biology is not only destiny, but evidence.

Late that afternoon, convinced he had penetrated her real identity, Tim introduced himself to the Keenans' youngest child. She was standing at a computer terminal, holding a clip board and jotting down numbers from the display on the screen. "Miss Keenan?"

She turned toward him, startled, her eyes gentian blue; enchanting. "Oh, hello! Agent Booth, isn't it?"

Tim was surprised into a smile. "You know me?"

She nodded, not quite able to hold his eyes. "You work with Dr. Brennan's team, you and your… brother, I believe?"

"My twin, actually: Vic. My name's Tim." He held out his hand to her, and after slipping her pencil into her lab coat pocket, she took it. "Pleased to meet you. Say, Miss Keenan…"

"J. R.," she said, releasing his hand. "I prefer to go by my initials."

"Er… J. R., then." Saying the letters out loud prompted a memory from childhood, and he said, trying for a jovial tone, "I don't suppose you own a large spread in Texas, and have a ten-gallon hat in your closet?"

She backed up half a step. "I don't know what that means."

"The classic TV show 'Dallas'? Who murdered J. R. Ewing?" Her eyes grew as wide as the proverbial saucers. "Never mind. Anyway, I was wondering… Do you have time for a drink, or a cup of coffee?"

"Me?" She did all but turn around to see if he was addressing someone behind her. "Do you mean, right now? Today? Is it about a case?"

"No, no," he assured her quickly. "I mean, it's not about a case. At least, it is, but not a case you're working on, not that I know what you're working on…" He floundered to a stop to see her smiling kindly at him. That smile… "I don't usually babble, J. R., trust me. Anyway, a drink? Coffee? Now is good for me, but I'm glad to wait…"

"My shift ends in half an hour or so…" She considered him uncertainly; Tim did his best to project carefree harmlessness. "I could go for some coffee, I guess…"

"Tell you what: I'll go grab the drinks and meet you in the upstairs lounge in thirty minutes. How do you like it?"

She looked at him quizzically. "The lounge?"

He barked with laughter. "No, the coffee. Caffeine? Cream? Sugar?"

"No, yes, and yes." She grinned up at him. "Lots of sugar."

Just the way he liked it, too. And that's when Tim knew: he and J. R., this could be going somewhere.


	10. Chapter 10: Consoling the Damsel

**What He Offered**

 **Chapter 10: Consoling the Damsel**

So… a second pairing. Yes, Bones saw the necessity of it: Vic had his Brennan, and now Tim would have his J. R. (why only initials, though? That seemed bizarre). This new plot thread was going to make for some potentially tangled story lines; she hoped Booth (or his ghost-writer Dr. Cameron) had the narrative chops to pull it off.

She spared a moment to return to the description of J. R.'s physical appearance. The haircut she remembered as one she herself had worn for a time and now regretted having adopted, perhaps because she associated it with a sad period of her life. As to the garment choices, she saw her mother now in her mind's eye slipping out the door on her way to the office wearing the very same sort of clothes: the modest white blouse beneath a fuzzy baby-pink pull-over, the gathered, knee-length skirt patterned with vines and flowers, the low-heeled shoes. How had they known? She owned so few photos of her mother; it was unlikely Booth had happened upon one of her in her work outfits. Perhaps he and Dr. Phil had done nothing more than select a diametrically-opposed fashion style to the eco-warrior look she herself had favored in those days. Yes, she decided, that made the most sense.

She wondered how Tim and J. R.'s romance would turn out; not well, she suspected, at least in the short term. She picked up the tale again.

A Tale of Twin Booth, cont'd

Tim was glad to see that J. R. was already in the lounge when he returned with the coffees. She was sitting as demurely as any schoolgirl in one of the chartreuse-colored chairs at the long conference table: spine straight, calves and ankles together, hands folded neatly in her lap. As she had removed her lab coat, he now saw that her white blouse was of light-weight cotton, long-sleeved, and her skirt was spring-green in color patterned all over with cheerful daisies. Tim set the drinks down on the table in front of her, and pulled out the chair opposite. "I hope you haven't been waiting long. Careful," he said, as she reached for one of the cups. "It's hot."

"Wow, it sure is!" She agitated her hand, trying to cool her palm. "Thanks."

"You're very welcome." He emptied his pockets of extra sugar packets, and put them on the table within her reach. "Just in case."

She titled her head, and smiled at him winsomely. "That was _so_ thoughtful. Thank you, Agent Booth."

"Please, call me Tim."

"All right: Tim." She took a tiny sip of her coffee, set the cup back on the table, and looked at him expectantly.

"Right, well… you must be wondering why I asked to speak to you, and you probably have plans for the evening, so time is short, and I should just cut to the chase…" He was babbling again. She smiled up from under her lashes at him, amused but not in a cruel way. "Sorry. Start again: J. R., I have reason to believe you are Dr. Brennan's younger sister, her twin, in fact."

The smile faded quickly from her lips, and she turned her face away. "Me? Dr. Brennan's sister?" She tried a light-hearted laugh, but it fell flat. "Just look at me! The very idea is preposterous. Really, Tim, I don't know how you…"

He reached across the table, and lay a hand over hers. "Joy Ruth…"

She yanked her hand from under his, and glared. " _Don't_ call me that!"

There was some Brennan in her, after all. He raised his hands in the universal gesture of surrender. "I apologize, J. R., no offense intended. I am absolutely certain, though, that you are Brennan's lost twin."

J. R. lowered her eyes, and did not answer. Her lower jaw jutted out fractionally, and worked to the right; he'd seen Brennan do that, too.

"Does Brennan know? That you work here?"

"No! And, _please_ , don't tell her. I need this job!"

She looked so panicked; why? "You're afraid if she knew, she'd have you fired?"

"Yes. She hates me." Her voice was so small, Tim almost didn't catch her words.

"J. R.! She's your sister! She doesn't hate you!"

She shot him a mulish look. "You say that because you're a twin, and you love your brother." She dropped her chin, and her hair swung forward, further obscuring her face. "If she loves one of us, it's Russ, and look how she treated him!"

"You were there, in the vehicle bay yesterday when she slapped him?" Tim could not keep the astonishment from his voice. "We had all personnel clear the area."

"I stayed out of view." She raised her head then, and regarded him frankly. "I'm good at passing unnoticed, Agent… Tim. It's a skill I've perfected over the years. It helps, of course, that there's nothing remarkable about me."

Tim met her gaze, and in it, read the truth. "There's more to it than that, J.R. You're hiding in plain sight. That's not your natural hair color, for one, though the dye job is very good. And I bet anything those lenses are clear glass." He nodded his appreciation. "Very Clark Kent."

He had teased a reluctant smile from her. "Wrong alias, Tim. The name is Diana Prince." She set her glasses on the table, squared her shoulders, placed balled fists against her hips, and lifted her chin. "I'm Wonder Woman!"

He laughed. "Yes, I see it now." They shared a smile, and then, remembering the matter at hand, Tim sobered and J. R. followed suit. "So… about your mother, Christine Brennan… I'm very sorry for your loss."

J. R. reached for her coffee cup, but did not pick it up. Apparently, she could not trust her trembling fingers. "I knew she was dead," she whispered. "I've always known."

"You have? But… how?"

A single tear, as large and lustrous as the pearls she wore around her throat, escaped her control and raced down her cheek. "She would have come back for me — for us, I mean — if she could. Only death could keep her away."

"And, your father? His remains were not found with hers."

"Dead, I expect." More tears began to streak her face; she brushed at them ineffectually. "My parents were the most loving, most devoted people in the whole world. They would _never_ have left us kids voluntarily. They were probably innocent by-standers caught up in some senseless violence, witnesses that had to be eliminated." The tears were flowing faster now, but she managed, "Wrong place, wrong time, nothing they could do…" And then, she could hold back no longer: with a sob, she dropped her face into her hands, and wept.

Tim was up and out of his chair like a shot, rounding the table and sinking into the seat beside her. He reached into his jacket's inner pocket, and removed the freshly-laundered linen handkerchief he had secreted there that morning. Before he could extend it to her, however, J. R. swiveled in her seat and, throwing herself at him, buried her face in his shoulder. Tim was taken aback, quite literally, but his reflexes came to his aid: as if of their own accord, his arms lifted and encircled her loosely, his head leaned reassuringly against hers, and every so often, his right hand rubbed her upper back. Her tears soaked the fine wool of his twelve-hundred dollar suit coat, but Tim found he did not mind in the least.

He wondered, as she spent her grief, how he could tell her the truth about her parents, a truth so different from the one she imagined. Obviously, she had not been within earshot of her siblings the day before, or she would have heard that her parents had once been part of a criminal gang of bank robbers. She probably also wasn't aware that her mother hadn't died that December day, but had lived another two years on the run. If there had been gossip about the Keenans in the lab, it had not reached J.R.'s ears.

Eventually, J. R. drew back from him and, with a sheepish expression, accepted the handkerchief he tendered. Tim watched her dry her eyes and cheeks, and mused how unfair it was that some women emerged from a crying jag with bloated cheeks, blotchy skin and crimson eyes, and others, like J. R., were more beautiful than before, their eyes shiny with their recent tears, their skin delicately flushed, their cheeks glistening. J. R. wiped away the last of the wet and ruined make-up from her face, and, without quite meeting his eye, motioned with the soiled handkerchief in her fist. "I'll wash this, and get it back to you."

"No need. Keep it. I've got others."

She smiled wanly, neither acceptance nor refusal. "I… apologize. For… just now. You're the first person — the only person — I've been able to talk to about this. No one else knows those remains were…" She shook her head, her lower lip caught between her teeth.

Tim lay his hand over hers where they rested tightly clenched together in her lap. This time she did not jerk away. "I suspect you've been feeling all alone, unable to tell your friends and co-workers about your loss, and cut off, as a result, from any comfort or sympathy."

"Yes." She nodded, still unable to look at him. "It's been very hard, trying to keep up a good front, hiding the pain."

"Well, that's all done now. I'm here for you, J. R. You don't have to pretend with me." He gave her hands an encouraging squeeze and let go. "You can be yourself."

She turned a searching look on him. "Why, Tim?"

"Sorry?"

"Why are you being so nice to me?"


	11. Chapter 11 Christmas Past

**What He Offered**

 **Chapter 10: Christmas Past**

Bones placed the page she had just finished on the face-down pile, and hefted the remaining sheets of paper in her hand suspiciously. Something did not jibe; there were too few pages remaining. It had taken Booth some thirty odd pages to reach this point in his tale, and there appeared to be only twenty or so left, with, she calculated, more than half the story still untold. How was he ever going to wrap it up so quickly when his narrative pace so far had been leisurely in the extreme? Or, had he given her an unfinished version? He had better not have done that! She was sorely tempted to flip to the last page, just to confirm that the story was indeed complete, but she thought of her own novels, and stayed her hand. She didn't approve of readers who, impatient with her careful plotting, skipped to the end in order to discover the bare-boned answers to who'd done it and why. If she wanted her readers to respect the integrity of her work, she would have to extend the same courtesy to Booth (and his co-author) as well. That being said, she didn't have to like it. She continued reading.

The Tale of Twin Booths, cont'd

J. R. had caught him flat-footed. What could he say? He remembered Brennan's reaction to being told Vic wanted more from her at the very outset of their acquaintance. Likely, her twin would be no different: she would cut and run. As he couldn't risk admitting that he thought the two of them might have something special, some great love, in the future, he fell back on, "I'm a psychologist. It's my job to help people."

She did not appear to find this reply entirely satisfactory. "You're not being kind to me because of… _her_?"

" _Brennan_? You think all this is about your sister?" Tim snorted. "Talk about preposterous! Brennan and I are like oil and water… milk and vinegar… magnetic north and south…"

J. R. giggled. "Okay! You can stop. I get the picture." As quickly as it had bubbled up, her mirth drained away. "It's like that with me and Temper, too."

"Temper?" Tim was almost sure he had misheard.

"That's was my nickname for her when we were teenagers. She called me 'Joyless' or 'Ruthless,' depending on her mood." J. R. rolled her eyes. "Temper never liked me much, and I hardly ever understood her, but we 'co-existed peacefully' as our Dad used to put it. Until…"

"Your parents disappeared."

"Yes. She blamed me; not me and Russ, just me. You may know our parents vanished shortly before Christmas. They went out shopping one day, just a few more presents to buy, they said. Christmas rolled around, and Russ, trying to keep our spirits up, put up a tree, decorated it beautifully, and on Christmas Eve, he placed the gifts he'd found hidden around the house under it. In his hurry to set the stage, he didn't check the gift tags on the presents, so it wasn't until the morning that we found that, though there were three each for Russ and Temper, there were no presents for me."

"Oh, J. R.!" Tim's heart bled for her. "How awful."

"Yes, but that's not the point of the story, don't you see? Our parents had gone out that day to buy _my_ presents. If I'd never been born, if Temper had never had a twin, Mom and Dad wouldn't have had to go shopping that day, they wouldn't have blundered into whatever nastiness wound up killing them. They'd still be alive."

"But… that's ludicrous!"

"I agree, but that's Temper: hyper-rational about some things, totally irrational about others. You see, now, why I had to conceal my identity."

Tim had the opening he needed to tell her that the new light shed on the Keenan disappearance had to exonerate her completely in Brennan's eyes, but he anticipated J. R. wouldn't be in quite so calm a state of mind after hearing the truth, and he still had a few questions to ask her. "I can see why you thought a disguise was necessary to work here at the Jeffersonian, but you changed your name legally in your early twenties."

"Remember, Tim: Temper is a prodigy. She was already making her mark in the journals, and being talked about in academic circles when I was still in college. At the time, I was majoring in anthropology, and didn't want anyone making the connection."

"Too much pressure?" Tim guessed.

She nodded. "It was always like that in school. Our teachers didn't mean to be hurtful, but they would look at me and my work, shake their heads, and say, 'I can't believe you and Temperance are twins'. "

"Maybe they were stunned you weren't disrupting class, or being uncooperative."

She rewarded him with a small smile. "There was some of that, I grant you. But, mostly, it was 'poor, little Joy Ruth: not a patch on her sister'."

Tim didn't want her dwelling on this sad history, so he moved on quickly. "J. R., I'm curious: how did you happen to choose 'Keenan' as your new last name?"

"Oh! Well, I didn't put a lot of thought into it, if that's what you mean. There was a store in the town where I lived with my foster family, the Chases, named 'Keenan's Jewelry.' I used to dawdle outside their display windows, looking over all those sparkly solitaire diamond rings and dreaming of being offered one myself someday. Silly girl stuff, I know. And then, when I had to pick a name, 'Keenan' just popped into my mind, I guess because of the happy association, and since it had nearly the same shape and mostly the same letters as my original name, it seemed… right. I don't know how else to explain it."

The moment had come; Tim couldn't postpone it any longer. "There is another reason, J. R., that the name 'Keenan' appealed to you."

She looked at him blankly. "I'm sorry. I don't follow you."

"J. R., when you were a child, little more than a toddler really, 'Keenan' _was_ your last name. Your parents were known as 'Max' and 'Ruth Keenan' back then."

"No," she said, with a vigorous shake of the head. "No. You've made a mistake, Tim, or you've been misinformed. My parents were Matthew and Christine Brennan."

"From the time you could remember, yes, but before that, they ran cons to rob safe deposit boxes. They used charm and cunning to gain access to bank vaults, J. R., not violence. Unfortunately, the gang they associated with did, and when your mother gave evidence against them, they sent their hit man to take them out. Your parents _did_ leave you of their own free will that December day, not because they wanted to, but in order to draw McVickers away from you. It was your safety and survival they were trying to insure."

J. R. had listened without interruption, unless repeatedly shaking her head could be interpreted as such. When he finished, she said firmly, "No, it's not true. Not my parents. I don't believe it." She pushed away from the table, stood, and hurriedly began to collect her handbag and light cloth coat from the back of her chair. "Thank you for the coffee, Tim, and for being so kind, but I… I _do_ have plans, and…"

She began to walk off at so brisk a clip, Tim was obliged to chase after her. "J. R., wait! Please! You're understandably upset. You shouldn't be alone… J. R., stop!"

She paused, turning only her head to the side, as if lending him an ear.

"Will you believe Russ? I can take you to him. Tonight, if you want. He's working at a carnival not far from here." She did not move, so he allowed himself to approach, cautiously. "You _would_ like to see Russ, wouldn't you?"

When he had come up beside her, she searched his face anxiously, then gave a small nod. "All right, then." He gestured for her to precede him. "Let's go."


	12. Chapter 12: Carnival

**What He Offered**

 **Chapter 12: Carnival**

Bones found herself becoming seriously annoyed. While she had known, going in, that she would figure largely in any exploration of Booth's history with women, she did _not_ think that gave him (or, more likely Dr. Cameron) the right to treat _her_ as an object of psychological analysis. _She_ was not the patient here! She had not signed up for therapy, and she resented their impertinence in treating her as a case study. All that invented nonsense about the Christmas presents! As an author, she appreciated the drama that twist added to the tale, but she felt strongly that, in fleshing out a sub-plot for J.R., Booth et al had crossed a line into personal territory without her permission. If they did not steer their tale back onto the track she had expected to be traveling, she was going to jump off their narrative train! For the moment, she continued reading.

A Tale of Twin Booths, cont'd

On the drive out, J. R. told him more about herself and Brennan. In her view, Temper had always been a daddy's girl: she and their father shared interests in math and hard science, had similar headstrong personalities, were each challenged by the other, and loved engaging in physical activity. J. R., on the other hand, had gravitated more toward their mother: she was mommy's little helper in the kitchen, enjoyed being taught home handicrafts, such as knitting and macramé, loved playing dress-up, and reading _Sweet Valley High_. The twins hadn't always been at loggerheads, she admitted; they had sometimes played quite pleasantly together, always provided, of course, that Temper organized and presided over the game. J. R. hadn't minded following Temper's lead because her twin's ideas were always so much more involved and entertaining than her own, and besides, it was easier to go with the flow than fight it.

Tim saw many parallels between his growing up with Vic post-abandonment and the picture J. R. painted, to such a degree, indeed, that he wondered if she had left out what had been a prominent part of his experience. "Did Brennan ever hit you?"

She swiveled in the passenger seat and gaped at him. "How did you know?" When he shrugged, J. R. went on, "She was a biter in the early years, but she was cured of that pretty quick. Later on, when she'd get frustrated because I was too slow, or too stupid, she would smack me hard, but it was never a sustained beating, only the one occasional blow."

Tim might have told her that Brennan had not changed much in that respect, but he decided such a remark would be impolitic, and, in any case, by that time they had arrived at the fairground.

Tim pulled into a parking space, and turned off the ignition. "Ready?"

J. R. made no move to open the passenger side door. "How… how do I look?"

She twisted in her seat to allow him a better view of her face.

Tim wanted to say 'you look every bit as beautiful as your sister,' but he knew that would be premature. "You're going want to give him some clue as to your identity, J. R., so I recommend storing the glasses, and doing something with those bangs. Brush them to the side, or pin them back, if you can."

She rooted in her purse, and came up with a thin, black hairband that she used to secure the bangs off her forehead. "Better?"

With her face fully exposed, and the features free of make-up, she might very well resemble the teenager Russ Brennan had last seen in his rear-view mirror. "Better."

Having met with his approval, J. R. let herself out of the car. Tim noticed she had left her twill coat behind, and threw it over his arm before going after her. "Here," he said, holding the coat open for her to slip into. "It's going to get chilly soon, now the sun's set."

She allowed herself to be helped into the coat, and side by side, they set off together toward the carnival lights. The midway was bright and garish with multi-colored bulbs flashing, and noisy with jaunty music and barkers exhorting passersby to stop and sample their wares or their game. The enticing aroma of fried dough and cotton candy tantalized Tim's nostrils, making him realize he'd had nothing to eat since lunch; he hadn't even touched the coffee he'd bought himself earlier. He stopped at a concession stand and purchased two funnel cakes and enough good will to have his inquiry as to the likely whereabouts of Russ Brennan answered: the ferris wheel.

Russ had just secured the last safety bar in place, and was starting the wheel in motion when they came up to him. Russ knew Tim, of course, having spent the greater part of the previous day in his company. His eyes passed over J. R. with curiosity but no recognition. "Agent Booth. I wasn't expecting to see you again so soon. Not that it isn't a pleasure."

"Evening, Russ. Listen, could you maybe get someone to cover for you for a short while? There's someone I'd like you to meet."

Russ glanced behind him at the people waiting their turn in line, and the people in their gondolas being lazily raised and lowered. "Ride just started. I can give you five minutes, maybe a few more."

Tim decided that would have to do. "J. R., you take it from here. I'll be right over by the carousel, finishing my funnel cake, if you need me."

Tim strolled over to the barrier circling the merry-go-round, firmly resolved to give the siblings their privacy but he found he couldn't resist repeatedly glancing over his shoulder at them until finally he gave up all pretense of keeping his back turned. He saw J. R., with many a hesitation and nervous gesture, reveal her identity, and Russ go through stages of mild interest, confusion, astonishment and finally, unmitigated joy. He crushed his sister to him, his eyes squeezed tight to better relish the feel of her, his mouth stretched in a smile so wide his cheeks must surely have protested. The surrounding carny-goers, seeing in the dramatic reconciliation something, no doubt, more romantic in nature, burst into clamorous cheers and applause.

Eventually, Russ drew back but he did not let her go entirely. He held her at arms' length and looked into her up-turned face as though he still couldn't believe his eyes. When Tim approached, thinking surely more than five minutes had elapsed, Russ stopped talking in mid-sentence and, releasing J. R., extended his hand. "Thanks, man. Really. You can't know what this means to me. To have some of my family back…" He swallowed hard, unable to continue, but Tim didn't need words to perceive his bottomless gratitude. Russ nodded his head, a last acknowledgement, then said, "Look, I've got people to let off and on, but… Can you guys hang around a while longer? There's still so much to say."

J. R. turned a beaming, hopeful face his way, and in that moment, Tim penetrated the mystery of why Vic could deny Brennan nothing. I'm toast, he thought. He assured Russ that they would clear out of the way so as not to impede the passengers about to disembark, and return when the next group of riders had assumed their seats.

"Thank you, Tim! Oh, thank you _so_ much!" J.R. said, as they walked a short distance off. "I don't know how I'll ever repay your kindness…"

"You can begin by forgiving me for distressing you this afternoon. With all my training, I should have handled the situation less clumsily."

"Don't beat yourself up about it, Tim, please. There's no good way to deliver that kind of news. And, what does it matter now, anyway? I've got a brother, Tim! A brother!" She bobbed up and down on the balls of her feet, like an excited child. "And, he's promised to keep my secret from Temper! We'll be our own little family, Russ and I."

Tim could not have said, afterward, what prompted him to look up at exactly that instant; perhaps it was his twin "spidey sense" springing back to life. Whatever alerted him, he raised his head and, scanning the milling crowd, spotted a familiar dark head in a well-known khaki jacket making his way down the midway with, on his left, an equally familiar companion. "J. R.," he said, striving to keep his voice calm and reassuring. "Don't turn around. No, don't! Please." He steered her by the elbow into the deepest shadow he could find and, looking over her shoulder, saw his partners closing in on the ferris wheel.

"Tim? What is it? What's going on?"

"Don't panic, J. R. It's Brennan. She's here."


	13. Chapter 13: Confrontation

**What He Offered**

 **Chapter 13: Confrontation**

The phone rang, causing Bones to jump and drop the page she'd been holding. Despite disapproving of the J. R. subplot, she'd been caught up in the narrative flow, and was irritated to be interrupted at precisely the point that promised to be the most interesting part of the story. She growled in frustration and picked up the phone. The name on the call screen filled her veins with ice.

"Marianne, what's wrong?"

"Not a thing, darling, relax! We're having the most marvelous time. This zoo is absolutely amazing."

"Oh! All right, then… What can I do for you?"

"Well, since you ask, I wonder: could you do me a tiny favor?"

Bones wasn't comfortable committing herself before knowing what would be required of her, but this was her mother-in-law asking, after all. "Of course, Marianne. If I can."

"Oh, you can, sugar! Listen, what I'd really like is to have Seeley and the kids to myself for just a few more hours. Reggie and I want to take them out to dinner after we're done here. Do you suppose you could spare them, sweetheart? We'd bring some take-out back for you, of course, so you wouldn't have to cook."

This was a ploy that Booth had apparently learned at his mother's knee: to frame as a favor to themselves what was really a favor for the other. "Did Booth put you up to this?"

"Seeley? Why, no, hun! He doesn't even know I'm calling. I wanted to get your okay first."

"Marianne… I don't know what to say. Is this really what you want?"

"Tempe, I missed so much time with him, I know I'll never make it all up, but I'll take what I can get. Seeley is all yours, now, I know that, and I couldn't be happier for him, but sometimes a mother just wants to be her boy's number one girl again for a short while. You'll understand someday when Hank brings home the girl he plans to marry."

As Hank was not yet walking on his own, Bones knew that day would be a long time coming. "Well, if you're sure…"

"Thanks, darling, I owe you one. See you soon." Call ended.

Bones set down her phone, and bending from the waist, retrieved the fallen page. Sons and mothers, mothers and son, she thought. Life can be so strange. She found her place, and resumed reading.

A Tale of Twin Booths, cont'd

"Temper? Where?" J. R. shrilled. "Did she see me?"

"No. Hold still. She's walking toward Russ." Vic had stopped further up the midway, leaving Brennan to confront her brother on her own. Tim couldn't make out their greetings, but their body language spoke of wariness and distance. Poor Russ, what a roller coaster night he was having!

"Tim, we have to get out of here!"

"No, J. R. We stand a better chance of going undetected if we make no sudden moves. Deep breath." He inhaled slowly, and, eyes locked on his, she imitated him. "Okay, now, I'll keep watch, and you, get your glasses back on and take that hairband off your head. That's right, shake out those bangs."

"What's happening?" She stepped up closer and studied his face anxiously.

"They're standing a bit apart from each other, talking back and forth. Russ looks like he'd rather be anywhere else. Wait: she has something for him, too small to make out. He's happy, moves closer, takes it. Brennan's talking, shifting from foot to foot. A short exchange, Russ puts his arm out, and…"

"What? What?"

"I… I think I might be hallucinating. Brennan just walked into Russ' arms. They're hugging."

"They're _what_ ?" J. R. spun around, and Tim did nothing to prevent her. She was in no danger of being spotted: Brennan eyes were tightly shut; her entire focus was on Russ.

The same could not be said of Vic, unfortunately. Tim had been so zeroed in on Brennan and Russ that he hadn't noticed his twin approaching. "Hey there, bro!" Vic punched Tim playfully in the shoulder. "What're the chances, right? What brings you out this way? Oh, and, _hey_ ," he said, as J. R. shrank away from him and closer to Tim, "Who do we have here, now? Whoa, Tim, you sly bastard! Where've you been hiding this little beauty? The name's…"

"Agent Booth," she said, warily. "Vic Booth."

Vic threw back his head and laughed. "I like the sound of that: very double-oh-seven."

"I… I don't know what that means."

"James Bond? International spy and ladykiller? Shaken, not stirred?" When J. R. continued to look incomprehension at him, he said, almost under his breath, "Where'd you find this one, Tim? In a museum?"

Tim was barely listening. Their cover was blown: extraction was now imperative. "We… ah… can't talk right now, Vic." He took hold of J. R.'s elbow. "Sorry to rush off like this. It's a… a private thing. You understand…"

"Whoa, there! Easy, boy." Vic help up both hands, palms out. "Where'd you leave your manners? You could at least introduce the lady before running off with her."

There seemed no help for it. "This is J. R., Vic. She works at the Jeffersonian."

"Pleased to meet you, J. R." He extended his hand, and, after a moment's hesitation, J. R. put hers into it. "Initials only, eh? Always keep 'em guessing, that it? Okay, I'll bite: what does J. R. stand for?"

"Joyless and Ruthless," said a scathing voice from behind him. Vic turned toward it, and there was Brennan, arms tightly crossed over her chest, her face hard with displeasure. She stalked forward and stopped by his side. "Meet my long-lost baby sister, Vic. And, in company with your twin brother, I see. Tim, sweetie, you are an unending source of surprise, generally unwelcome."

Vic had only just picked his jaw up off the ground. "Your sister?" he repeated. "Your _twin_ sister? I can't believe it!"

"You'd see the resemblance if she wasn't trying so very hard to hide it. Look!" Her hand shot out, her fingers found purchase on the bridge of J. R.'s glasses, and she tore them from her sister's face before anyone could stop her. A gasp escaped J. R. and both brothers; then, J. R.'s hands flew up to cover her face, and she turned into Tim with a sob.

"Temperance!" Vic gaped at her, horrified.

She spun toward him, hissing, "I've told you and told you: _don't_ call me that!"

"Because it doesn't suit you, and you know it!" Tim, cradling J. R. in his arms, had never been angrier with Brennan, or with anyone else, in his life. "There is nothing moderate about you, nothing!" he shouted. "You're out of control, Brennan. You need a keeper!"

Brennan regarded him coldly. "And I suppose you think that's a bundle of joy you're clasping to your manly chest? Well, let me burst your bubble, Tim, sweetie: she's the saddest, mopiest, most miserable little crybaby you're ever likely to meet. And, a friend? A boon companion? A Ruth? Please, don't make me laugh. She was never any of those things for me."

"How could she be, when you never let her? You didn't want a friend, you wanted a tame follower with no mind of her own."

Brennan snorted. "I see she's been pouring her venom in your ear, and you, of course, are only too willing to listen. Let me guess: she didn't tell you she got me kicked out of our first foster home?"

"That is _so_ unfair," J. R. moaned.

"So, you _can_ speak after all. Okay, then, little mouse, defend yourself, if you can. Come out from behind your shining white knight, and face the big, bad dragon on your own."

To her credit, J. R. drew herself up and turned to confront her sister, her face wet with tears. Vic reached into his pocket for a handkerchief, and finding one of passable cleanliness, made to lend it to her, but Brennan slapped his hand away. "Stay out of this. One Booth interfering is bad enough." To J. R., she said, "We're waiting."

"You know very well why you were… placed elsewhere."

"I do, but these gentlemen do not. Explain."

"You blackened my eye, and nearly broke my cheekbone. The swelling didn't go down for a week."

"You didn't!" Vic burst out.

"I did." Brennan did not appear to feel any remorse. "Do you remember _why_ I hit you?"

"Because I couldn't stop crying, even when you warned me what would happen if I didn't."

" _And_ , because you kept insisting, even months after their disappearance, that Mom and Dad loved us too much to leave us forever, that they'd come back for us, that we'd be a family again, we only had to be patient and endure."

"I was trying to comfort you," J. R. cried.

"That's rich! As if _you_ were any consolation. _You_ were to blame for their driving off that day in the first place! If they hadn't needed to buy your presents…" Suddenly, in mid-diatribe, Brennan's jaw went slack, her eyes showed white around the iris and she stared, speechless, at her sister, as if J. R. now was the dragon with Medusa-like power. "Oh… Oh, my…"

"What? What?" Vic looked from one of them to other. "Somebody tell me what the hell is going on here!"

"Brennan just heard herself, that's all," Tim told him.

And then, because Temperance Brennan was the epitome of unpredictable, when she recovered from her momentary paralysis, she rushed to her sister, pulled her into a tight embrace, and did not let go.


	14. Chapter 14: Changes

**What He Offered**

 **Chapter 14: Changes**

Bones picked up her pencil, and wrote _Yes!_ in the margin. She was relieved that the sisters' estrangement would not drag on indefinitely. Now that there were two complete sets of twins in play, the tale would likely pick up speed.

As she had her pencil in hand, she decided to jot down two questions that had occurred to her:

— _interesting that I (represented by the Brennan / J. R. duality) am the only woman (as far as I know) in Booth's sexual history to embody both of his stated "types" (for Vic, the cool, hard-to-capture, professional woman and for Tim, the emotional, clingy, trouble-plagued woman). Is that what made me "ideal" for him?_

— _also, interesting that Tim shows anger (Vic's signature trait) at the carnival while Vic shows distress (Tim's marker). Does this mean the brothers are becoming less different, and therefore closer to re-integrating?_

She held the pencil ready above the page, but no further thoughts came to her, so she set it aside, and resumed her reading.

A Tale of Twin Booths, cont'd

When she realized she was squeezing J. R. a trifle too hard, Brennan finally did release her sister, but, from that moment on and in all important respects, she never let go of her again. With Russ in tow, the sisters spent a protracted vacation in North Carolina and, upon their return to the lab, showed unmistakable signs that the breach between them had begun to heal. When their paths crossed during work hours, it was "Dr. Brennan" this, and "Miss Keenan" that, but during their leisure time, J. R. now called Brennan "Tempe" and, as for Brennan, she decided in her brusque way that J. R. was an unnecessarily complicated form of address, and took to calling her simply J., with the result that, in time, casual acquaintances and co-workers, mistaking the initial for a word, thought her name was "Jay."

That was the least of the changes: when the lease on Jay's studio apartment ran out at the end of the summer, Brennan insisted that her twin come share her condo, which, to hear her tell it, had always been far too large for a single occupant anyway. Jay hesitated at first, but she allowed the advantages of a safer neighborhood, larger and better-maintained living quarters and a lower rent to persuade her, and Brennan never gave her cause to regret her decision. As is often the way in these matters, what had started out, on Brennan's part, as an offer prompted as much by a guilty conscience as a charitable impulse ended up benefitting her spectacularly as well. Had Jay not moved in with Brennan, she would not have happened across the rough draft of the next Reichs series novel, would not have asked permission to read it, and would not have suggested revisions which even Brennan's editor applauded as "vast improvements." Thus, serendipitously, Brennan discovered in her sister a valuable beta-reader and not-infrequent collaborator. With Jay's input, Kathy Reichs, Andy Lister and their fictional associates became better-rounded, more recognizably-human characters; novel sales and critical acclaim sky-rocketed. Brennan was quick to acknowledge Jay's contributions, not in the press, certainly, but in the form of bank drafts written out for sums that had Jay's eyes starting from her head.

This financial windfall was, for Jay, just the icing on an already exceptionally sweet cake. Backed by Brennan's support and care, she felt emboldened to dispense with her Diana Prince disguise, stood taller, smiled more often, and took greater pride in her work. Brennan encouraged her to continue her studies, and before long, she received a Master's Degree in anthropology and was subsequently accepted into a doctoral program at a prestigious area university. She would never be the leading light in her chosen field, but her academic work was impeccable and well-received, which was more than many of her fellow grad students could say.

The Booths were affected by these changes as well, particularly Tim. Vic was, primarily, pleased as punch to have another gorgeous female in his orbit to flirt with, tease and dazzle with his charm. For Tim, Jay had never been just a pretty plaything, but potentially, the love of his life, and that did not change as her confidence in her abilities and her pride in her achievements increased and transformed her into a self-assured professional woman. Indeed, it only served to confirm him in his initial suspicion: she was, indeed, the one.

It was Tim's relationship to Brennan that underwent the bigger change. Since that evening at the carnival, when he had held nothing back of his anger at her, she showed a new respect for him. She listened to him less critically, and even gave indications of seeking his approval. On one memorable afternoon, when Vic, Parker and Jay were frolicking in her building's private swimming pool, Brennan turned to Tim, lounging on a deck chair next to hers, and gestured toward her sister. "I've taken your advice, you see," she said, on a laughing note. "I've found myself a keeper."

Tim had gained a new appreciation for Brennan, too, and he knew, now, what lay beneath her apparent flippancy. "Jay's a salutary influence on you, Brennan, that's true. But, you've done wonders for her, as well," he added in complete sincerity. "The two of you are good for each other."

She did not answer at once, and Tim had already ceased expecting a reply, when she said quietly, in a thick voice, "Thank you, Tim."

So, what had begun in tragedy with the discovery of Christine Brennan's remains culminated, finally, in a revitalization of her dear daughters' lives: the sisters' reconciliation inaugurated for them a period of greater happiness, greater success, greater trust in the others who had stood by, and with, them in their grief and confusion, and, by extension, a greater willingness to take personal risks. Among the beneficiaries of their new openness and flexibility were the Booths.

Their professional and personal bonds with the Brennan girls stronger and surer than ever, the Booth brothers settled down to play what Tim, with his video game background, termed "the long game." Vic had already been playing for a while, and his strategy remained unchanged: he was resolved not to chase Brennan romantically provided she did not run from him professionally, the long-term goal being to wear down her resistance to a romantic relationship so well that she would allow herself, given time, to be caught. Tim's strategy was similar, but with a twist: he was resolved to remain always available to Jay semi-professionally (as an unpaid therapist of sorts) provided that she always ran to him for help and guidance with her personal problems, the long-term goal being to give her time to see in him not only a friend, but the man she loved as well.

Patience is admirable and a great virtue, but sexual frustration exerts a powerful pressure all its own, and, as Vic was obliged to explain to Brennan at one point, their partnership generated a tension that had to be dealt with, creatively if possible. Brennan, who had long considered sex a merely prophylactic practice, actively encouraged him to seek release with suitable partners as she did, and although it wasn't what he wanted, Vic met his needs in the arms of women who were satisfied with a single night of passion, or less frequently, with women who were happy to indulge in a whirlwind romance. On a number of occasions, he fell into bed with his ex-lover, Rebecca, and for a short while, he reprised his role as Cam Saroyan's friend with benefits. When he sensed that she was beginning to harbor expectations of forever, he broke off their affair. It was then that Cam fully understood what he'd meant when he'd said he was with Brennan all the way.

As best friend and life coach, Tim was painfully privy to the rather disastrous sexual encounters and doomed love affairs into which Jay threw herself. Her taste in men was certifiably atrocious: she was seduced with sob stories, taken advantage of by players, strung along by closeted gays, and used as a doormat by narcissists. Again and again, she would bring her broken and bleeding heart to him, like a bird with a tattered wing that only he could mend. Jay would cry on his shoulder, and Tim would let himself hope that, this time, she would finally see that the right man for her, the man who would love her as she deserved, was right under her tear-reddened nose. While he waited for her to have her epiphany, he had a string of one night stands with young women who thought he was adorable and wanted to cuddle him, or older women who would simply not take "no" for an answer. They were physically-gratifying hook-ups, but Tim felt more heart-sick after them than he had before.

This fundamentally unsatisfying but stable state of affairs wherein Vic and Tim gave their bodies to interchangeable women and held their damaged hearts in reserve for the Brennan twins might have limped on forever except for the advent of a very credible threat to their precarious equilibrium. Enter the Captain.


	15. Chapter 15: Competition

**What He Offered**

 **Chapter 15: Competition**

Bones was intrigued to discover who the so-called "captain" might be (another made-up secondary character?), but she wanted to write down just a few impressions before they slipped her mind:

— _interesting that each "sister" loses an "r" from the end of her name. Does this signify that Temper has lost some of her Rage and J. R. some of her Regret?_

— _Tim and Brennan have found some common ground at last, and Vic and Jay seem to have a cordial relationship. Moving closer to reconciliation of opposites?_

— _the "long game" metaphor works well as a unifying motif. What does it mean in video-game terminology?_

She stuck her pencil behind her ear, and resumed reading.

A Tale of Twin Booths, cont'd

The Booth brothers were colleagues of Agent Tim "Sully" Sullivan long before he became the skipper of his own charter boat. They considered him a thoroughly good guy and an outstanding g-man. Brown-haired and brown-eyed with an athletic physique, Sully's good-looks were more generic than jaw-dropping, at least until he flashed his dimples. While Vic's charm was normally set at full-blast, Sully's brand was more of the understated variety but no less devastating for all that. His courteous, considerate manner, keen sense of humor and quiet confidence made him a favorite with the ladies, most of whom were not put off by what his FBI nickname of "Peanut" suggested about his manly parts.

Whatever insecurity Vic might have harbored about his personal relationship with Brennan, he had absolute confidence in their professional bond, to the point, indeed, of complacency. Prevented on account of disciplinary action from investigating a homicide in the swamplands of Florida, he suffered not the least qualm in learning that his friend Tim Sullivan would be working the case with his partner. When, initially, Brennan expressed reservations regarding his replacement's qualifications, Vic was generous in his praise, recommending Sully as an excellent agent with wide experience, entirely worthy of her trust. He doubtless would have been far less complimentary if he'd had the slightest inkling that Sully would soon be entering the race as a serious candidate for Brennan's heart.

Shocked as he was at first to discover the two were dating, Vic was not greatly dismayed. Brennan had her flings, just as he did; the affair would run its course, and, when it was over, he and Brennan would resume their partnership as though nothing had happened. He schooled himself to be patient and endure, but Sully didn't make it easy. He was not one of the typical losers Brennan wasted her time on; no, he was a stand-up guy, so much so, in fact, that he made sure he was not cutting Vic out before he pressed his suit. Vic denied any interest, of course — he was bound by his long-term strategy — but Sully wasn't fooled. Still, Vic had, in effect, taken himself out of the running, and Sully needed no further encouragement to initiate his own chase.

It was a testament to Sully's commitment to Brennan that he befriended Jay as well. Not long after Sully became her boyfriend, Brennan, along with the Booths, was called to investigate first one homicide and then another two that, in their particulars, were faithful copies of the three murders in her recently-released novel, Red Tape, White Bones. Clinical Brennan was able, to some degree, to distance herself from the crimes, arguing that the killings would have taken place in any event, just in a different form, but Jay could not be so sanguine. She was distraught to think that anything she'd had a hand in creating could have been turned to such a depraved purpose, and she often succumbed to tears in consequence. Sully would hold and soothe her, assuring her over and over that she was not at fault, that she'd done nothing wrong. He was protective of her as well: without being asked, Sully escorted Jay to Brennan's book-signing and did not stray a moment from her side the entire evening. He did not protest even when, in her nervousness, she clung like a limpet to his arm.

As Sully horned in on their investigations and usurped their roles with the Brennan twins, Vic and Tim found themselves increasingly in the unenviable position of helpless observers. Tim had inhabited this role many times in his life, and so had the advantage over Vic, who was twitchy and chafed to find himself standing on the sideline. In his anxiety, Vic started behaving badly: inserting himself where he wasn't wanted, taking cheap shots at his rival, and generally acting like a dog in a manger. His heart soared with gladness to see Brennan and Sully argue, or to hear Sully acknowledge that Vic and Brennan made a great team, but it plummeted like a stone to see how eager she was to return to her vacationing boyfriend, or to realize he ceased to exist for her when Sully walked into the room. And, to look up, all unsuspecting, that evening they'd solved the case, only to witness her kissing Sully with obvious abandon had torn him up inside.

As he saw less of Sully and Jay together, Tim's pain was not as great as Vic's, but he was sore enough, knowing that Jay often turned to Sully for comfort, to reply somewhat testily when Sully asked him how Jay was holding up, "Why don't you ask her yourself?" He was immediately ashamed of his meanness, which Sully had done nothing to deserve, and, in an effort to make amends, offered Sully his best piece of advice concerning Brennan: "Don't let her bully you into leaving her." He couldn't say fairer than that.

When his efforts to lure Brennan off Sully's boat and into the lab met with limited success or failed entirely, Vic knew he was in serious jeopardy of losing his partner for good. His worst fears were confirmed soon after when Tim informed him that Sully had asked Brennan to sail away with him to warm Caribbean seas, and that she had not summarily refused him. Vic dropped his head in his hands. "God, Tim! This can't be happening!"

"Jay says it's only for a year. Brennan needs a break, Vic. She'll take a sabbatical, get away from gory corpses for a while, clear her mind.…"

Vic raised his head and looked at his brother bleakly. "What about Jay? She going along?"

Tim nodded. "You know Brennan can't be parted from her. Besides, they've just started work on the next Reichs book. They need to stay together."

"So…" Vic breathed in deeply, sighed. "You're the shrink, here, Tim, the guy with the answers. So, counselor, counsel me: what the hell am I supposed to do?"

"What do you want?"

"Oh, no! No! None of that psychologist-couch crap. Straight-up question, straight-up answer. Lay it on me."

"You want my advice? Let her go."

Vic threw up his hands in disgust. "Really, Tim? After all this time, the same old tune?"

Tim felt his cheeks grow hot. "The tune might be the same, Vic, but not the lyrics."

"Jeez, I really hate when you speak Hallmark. English!"

"All right, have it your way. It's true I thought, at first, Brennan was all wrong for you. I had her pegged as a heartless ball-breaker, a first-class bitch. I know better now; I know _her_. She has a real chance for happiness with Sully, Vic. He's not like you and me: he has a sound heart to offer, a whole heart." He let the words sink in for a moment, then went on, "I answered your question. Now, here's one for you: would you rather Brennan run off and be happy with Sully, or stay here and be miserable with you?"

Vic regarded his twin unhappily. "Are those my only options?"

Tim did not dignify that question with a reply. "Cut her loose, Vic. If she asks your opinion, tell her to go, spread her wings, live large. She's only promising a year. Give her the chance to come back to you."

Vic laughed, a short, bitter sound. "Yeah, like that worked so well with Mom."

"Brennan isn't Mom, Vic. She's her own person, a wild card. If you love her, Vic, really love her…"

"Don't! Just don't say 'set her free.' If you start quoting Sting at me, so help me God, I'm going to punch your lights out."

Vic lay in bed that night, haunted by Tim's question. He turned it over and over in his mind, coming at it from one way, then another. He tried picturing Brennan smiling, the breeze lifting her hair as the boat motored through waters as blue as her eyes; he tried imagining himself collaring bad guys without her, or with some hot-babe agent who would stay behind him and let him be the gun for a change. When he tried placing himself on the dock watching her form gradually diminish as she stood waving from the stern, he felt an anguish so keen, he couldn't catch his breath. Every instinct in him rebelled at the thought of letting her go. But then, he pictured Brennan on the dock, watching Sully sail toward the horizon with the same searing pain in her heart, and he knew: if one of them had to endure that kind of suffering, better that it be him, far better.

When, as Tim had foreseen, Brennan asked for his take on Sully's invitation, Vic had his answer ready and was able, due to that preparation, to say with a tolerable show of nonchalance and friendly disinterest that she should go. She seemed not entirely satisfied with his advice, and looked on the point of extending the conversation, but just at the moment, the techs called for their attention, and the subject was dropped, for good.

That evening, Vic replayed the scene for Tim, who then took his life in his hands and gave his brother a one-armed hug. "I'm proud of you, Vic."

"Yeah? Well, just so you know: that doesn't make it hurt any less."

"That pain you're feeling, bro? It's the shell around your heart thinning, just a little."

"That right? Well, looks to me your heart's scarring over here and there." Vic shrugged his brother off, and went to see a fridge about some beer.

"What'll it be, Tim?" Vic asked, handing him a bottle. "Does she go or stay? What's your gut tell you?"

Tim's gut was unforthcoming.


	16. Chapter 16: Confidence

**What He Offered**

 **Chapter 16: Confidence**

Bones took a moment to remember that long-ago morning: there had, indeed, been a breeze ruffling her hair but it had been chill, and Sully had been at the controls, not in the stern. She recalled wondering, as he waved one last time before turning his face resolutely toward the sea, if she would ever see him again, the dear man. To date, she had had not so much as a glimpse of him, and he'd never phoned from Turks and Caicos, or sent a post card wishing she were there. It was as if, like some ancient flat-earthers were reputed to have feared, he had sailed to the end of the earth and right over its far edge. Would they have made a go of it, they two? She would never know now, but she did not regret the lost opportunity. She had everything she wanted, here and now, including more pages of Booth's story.

The Tale of Twin Booths, cont'd

Ultimately, it was both Vic and Brennan standing on the dock, waving good-bye: she at the far end, watching somewhat sadly as Sully steered the _Temperance_ out of the bay toward open seas, and he, trying to mask his joy, waiting at the shore end to offer whatever comfort his company and a hot breakfast could supply. She didn't welcome the sight of him, and she was to remain touchy and disagreeable for days, but she hadn't left him, not professionally, and Vic, after the scare he'd been through, found that more than sufficed. The long game was back on.

Jay had phoned the previous evening with news of the decision, and she was still excited the next morning when, as arranged, Tim came round to the condo carrying a box full of frosted muffins from the boutique bakery they both favored. The table had been set as for a party with a gaily-colored cloth and matching napkins, gentian-blue stoneware mugs and dishes, and a vase full of daisies in pride of place. He surrendered the box to his hostess, and gestured to the table. "What's the occasion?"

She snipped the twine, and raised the box lid, all with a huge smile on her face. "It's a celebration, Tim! Sit, sit! The coffee's ready. I'll just put these on a platter."

Disregarding her instructions, Tim collected the thermal carafe from the counter, carried it to the dining area, and poured for both of them. He was just making room on the table for the baked goods when she walked up with the cut-glass cake stand piled with muffins. "Oh, thank you, Tim! No, sit, I tell you! I can pull out my own chair!"

He waited until she had slipped into her seat before taking his place at the table. "I'm going to go out on a limb, here, and guess you're glad not to be leaving D. C."

"Oh, Tim! I know I'm terrible! I shouldn't be happy when Tempe's so upset, but I can't help what I feel."

"No, no, of course not." He watched her tip three teaspoonfuls of sugar into her coffee, then ventured, "Is Brennan unhappy, then? Don't tell me, if you think by doing so you're betraying her confidence."

"Tempe's all over the map, as usual." Tim had the sudden urge to remark that Tempe was, actually, in Arizona, but he resisted. "Let's see: she's sorry she disappointed Sully, who, as you know, is a _very_ nice guy. She feels a little bit guilty, too, because she thinks she might have led him on, which, as I told her, is absolutely ridiculous. What else? She's kind of mad at me for not hiding my lack of enthusiasm very well, and… oh! She's really angry at Vic."

Tim nearly choked on his muffin. He reached for his coffee, and washed the crumb down. "She's pissed off at Vic? Oh… er, pardon my French."

She waved off his apology. "To be fair, she's miffed at you and Angela, too. She wanted you all to make a big fuss: cry, moan, gnash your teeth, that kind of thing. She was waiting for someone to say, 'Hell, _no_ , you can't go! What are you thinking? You're indispensable, the Jeffersonian will go into the tank without you, the FBI will never catch a murderer again!' You get the idea."

It was all Tim could do not to gape at her. "You're joking!"

Jay popped a bite of muffin in her mouth, and chewed thoughtfully. "Joking? No. Exaggerating? Maybe. Basically, she feels unappreciated. It was like when we were in school: Tempe could join a group usually, but if she wandered off, nobody objected. Nobody called after her, 'Hey, where're you going? Come back! We need you.' I guess this time, with her lab family, she thought things would be different."

"Jeez!" Tim shook his head in disbelief. "And, here we all were bending over backwards trying to put her happiness first. So much for good intention." He pondered the perversity of human nature as he stirred a few more drops of cream into his coffee. "If she's as peeved as you say, I wonder she didn't sail off with Sully just for spite."

"That's more something _I_ would do. Tempe's too rational, and beside, it wouldn't have been fair to Sully. He deserved to be chosen on his own merits."

"She didn't choose him, though." Tim knew he was on the verge of prying, and though he tried to rein in his curiosity, the struggle was short-lived. "I suppose she didn't love him, or didn't love him enough."

"Oh, I don't know." Jay picked up her napkin, and was suddenly engrossed in wiping her fingertips clean. "It might just be the opposite, Tim. Tempe's always telling me I shy away from successful, charismatic career-men like… like Sully because I don't feel worthy of men like that, I'm not enough… woman, I guess. She's never said so, but I think, deep down, maybe Tempe feels the same way: you know, lacking in some way. If Sully hadn't asked her to decide so soon, if he'd given her more time to grow confident in her ability to offer him as much as he offered her, I think things might have worked out between them."

This was a speech so rich in potential significance that Tim, for a moment, couldn't get a handle on it all. To cover his confusion, he joked, "For a woman who hates psychology as much as Brennan, she sure engages in lots of analysis."

Jay looked up at him from under her lashes, and smiled. "It's your influence, Tim. Sometimes she sounds just like you, I swear!"

If Jay only knew the effect those smiles of hers had on him… or, was it possible…? "You know, you never did say why you weren't thrilled to go off on a year-long cruise. I thought you liked Sully."

"Oh, as far as that goes, Sully's a prince. I absolutely adore him, only… not as much as…" She lowered her eyes, caught her bottom lip between her teeth, and started to smooth the napkin she had just been rumpling.

Tim's heart was beating a rapid tattoo. "Are you saying you're interested…" He cleared his throat. "…interested in someone here in D. C.?" A tiny nod: yes. "Anyone I know?" Another tiny nod. "Can you tell me…?"

She shook her head decidedly. "Please, don't ask, Tim. I… shouldn't have said anything. Tempe tells me I'm mistaking kindness for attraction, that I have to really work on myself before a man like… like _him_ would want a serious relationship with me."

Tim felt his old dislike of Brennan rising up in him again. How dare she undermine her sister's self-esteem? "Jay, Brennan has no business running you down…"

"Tim!" Jay raised her head, and turning toward him, laid her hand on his forearm. "Please, stop! Tempe's right; I know she is. Just now, I don't have the confidence, or self-respect to be any man's equal partner, but, thanks to you and Tempe, I've come a long way already, and I'm going to be a strong, independent woman someday." She leaned toward him confidentially, and whispered, "I'm training to be badass, Tim."

They laughed together, and the moment for sharing secrets passed. They polished off a few more muffins, packed the remainder away for Vic and Brennan, and, after having cleaned up their mess, headed off for an afternoon's wandering through the exhibit halls of the Jeffersonian.

When Tim reflected on Jay's revelations later, he drew an encouraging lesson from Sully's failure to woo Brennan. He had heard Sully say, "Brennan's the go-slow type," so he had, obviously, understood the paramount importance of patience. But, in the end, Sully had been unable to wait, he had pressed for an answer too soon. Tim was more than ever convinced that he and Vic were on the right track: the long game was the best strategy. They had only to be patient and endure.

Patience is an admirable quality and a great virtue, but it can be sorely tried, and Sully was just the first of many hard tests the Booths had to face as their long game unfolded down the months and years. There were many times when one or the other twin was strongly tempted to give up, as when Tim discovered Jay was dating, simultaneously, a well-muscled deep sea welder and an effeminate botanist, or when Vic had to stand by and watch Brennan welcome the effusive attentions of Deputy Director Andrew Hacker. They had their own low points, too, as when Tim, recovering from brain-tumor surgery, didn't know for certain which of the Brennan twins he loved, or when Vic, having had to take a life in the line of duty, was tormented by guilt. They were often, separately or together, pushed to their limits, but then, there would come an unlooked-for buss on the cheek, a perfunctory kiss under the mistletoe that was anything but, and the odd undercover case where they were free, because in character, to offer and receive the physical affection they craved. They made these very small comforts go a long way, they kept their eyes on the long-term prize, and they endured. Over time, in a process so gradual as to be imperceptible, the shell around Vic's heart thinned to near transparency and the largest wounds in Tim's heart scabbed over: their hearts were all but healed.

There came a moment, finally, when the long game appeared on the point of paying off. It felt to Vic and Tim as though they were in the final seconds of regulation, racing toward the wide open goal, the longstanding tie about to be broken at last! And then, cruel Fate came out of nowhere and blocked the winning slap shot just as time ran out: game over. Final score: two to two.

Calamity Day had been bad, very bad. But, the night the buzzer sounded on the long game was far, far worse. It was a Catastrophe.

Bones rapidly turned the page. There was one last sheet of paper in her lap. Smack dab in the center, all in upper-case letters were four short words:

END OF PART ONE


	17. Chapter 17: Catastrophe, prelude

**What He Offered**

 **Chapter 17: Catastrophe, prelude**

It was a good thing the Booth house was set far back from the road on a well-wooded lot, or the neighbors might have mistaken the scream emanating from that direction for a dire emergency and phoned 911. As it was, Bones' outburst merely vented the worst of her frustration without ill effect. She had a strong impulse to grab up the pile of pages she had stacked so neatly, and toss it high in the air, but she could visualize the mess that would inevitably result, and restrained herself in time.

Ooooh, grossly unfair! Inexcusable! How long until the Zoo Brigade could be expected to return? She glanced at the wall clock: two hours at least. No, she would not stand for it. She picked up her phone, only to set it down again. What could she say? If the story wasn't done, railing about it wouldn't change matters. She would have to — what was that phrase that kept recurring? — _be patient and endure_. Never her forte.

Sighing, she decided to make the best of a bad situation and brew herself some Earl Grey tea. And a small snack wouldn't come amiss, either. She was on her way into the kitchen, her mind busy weighing the choice between cookies and biscuits, when she spied it, left out carelessly on the breakfast bar counter: the family laptop. Dr. Cameron had mentioned a copy of the tale was stored on Booth's laptop; not his office laptop, surely? She lifted the lid, and crowed with glee to discover he hadn't signed out; she had full access. Documents… documents… what title would he have given it? Nothing leapt out at her, until there! A folder called "TOTBs." That could be it. It was! And, what was more, there were two separate files named: Part One and Part Two. _Yes!_

She double-clicked on Part Two, and, all thoughts of afternoon tea flown, took up her reading.

PART TWO: A Tale of Twin Booths

The Booths, Brennan and the Jeffersonian team had been collaborating, now, for over four years. Theirs was an astoundingly successful association, with a rate of conviction unmatched not only in the D.C. office but around the country. Even Miss Caroline Julian, the prosecutor for the U. S. Attorney's office with whom they worked most closely and who was notoriously difficult to please, praised them as an extraordinary ensemble, the very best in the business. Their various talents and skills meshed like the finely-calibrated gears of a well-oiled machine, a machine that needed very little maintenance and showed no signs of running down.

Equally indisputable to Miss Julian and to everyone who worked at the lab and in the Hoover Building was that Vic and Brennan on the one hand and Tim and Jay on the other were established couples, any appearance to the contrary notwithstanding. The principles might deny it up and down and six ways to Sunday but they convinced no one: it was taken for granted that Brennan and Jay were spoken for, and Vic and Tim no longer looking. If, as rumor had it, their relationships had no sexual component, that was admittedly bizarre, but surely not unprecedented, and, in any case, did not belie their obvious emotional commitment. They might as well have been long-married as far as friends, family and colleagues were concerned.

But, the fact was, they were not married, and the long game was beginning to wear on Vic and Tim. In the ordinary way of things, the twins, teammates in the game, turned to one another for encouragement, support and advice, but from time to time, a second, more impartial perspective was needed, and in those instances, Vic sought the advice of the head chef at the gourmet restaurant La Coupole, Gordon Gordon Wyatt. When they first met, Gordon Gordon was employed at the FBI as a psychologist, and had drawn Vic as a patient when Vic ill-advisedly discharged his gun in public. Gordon Gordon had proven himself then and in subsequent troubles an excellent counselor and life guide, and he was the person to whom Vic turned when, finally, the pressure of patiently enduring had taken a terrible toll.

"As I have no expertise whatsoever in marksmanship, Vic," Gordon Gordon said, when he had heard the ostensible reason for Vic's sudden appearance in his kitchen, "I am forced to conclude that your requesting I 'help you fire your gun' is a metaphor — and a fairly standard one, at that — for an entirely different kind of problem. At a guess, I would hazard that you are experiencing difficulties — how shall I put this? — operating your manly apparatus."

An uncharacteristic flush stained Vic's cheeks. "That's one way to put it, yeah."

"Come, come, Vic, there's no need to be embarrassed! It's a much more common occurrence than you might think. Most men at one time or another fall a little short, if you'll excuse the expression."

"Yeah? Well, it's never happened to me, and… ah…" Vic shifted in his chair, but failed to find a more comfortable position. He continued in a low voice, "That's not even the worst of it."

Gordon Gordon brightened. "Ah! Now you intrigue me. How so?"

"It's not so much a matter of 'can't' so much as 'don't want to'."

"I see. You're saying your libido has gone missing in action, so to say."

"Action!" Vic snorted. "That's just it: I'm not getting any action."

"But, from what you've just confided in me, it would appear to be a matter of choice, rather than lack of opportunity."

Vic breathed out heavily. "Here's the thing, Doc… er, Chef," he amended, when Gordon Gordon raised an eyebrow at him. "I was feeling the need for a little… distraction the other night, so I went down to my old buddy Aldo's bar, and there I was, drinking my Scotch, shooting the breeze about the bad old days, when this hot blonde takes the stool next to me. When I say 'hot,' I'm talking _smokin'_ : long, wavy hair down to her.. ah, waist, big brown eyes, fantastic smile, standing-room only in the balcony, and legs… whoa, baby!"

"Yes, I catch your drift, as you Americans like to say: an ideal prospect for amorous calisthenics."

"In a nutshell." Vin grimaced at his choice of words. "So, anyway, we get to chit-chatting, and, long story short, she asks me back to her place for a night cap. I stand up, throw a few bills on the counter, start to follow her out, and — bam! — it hits me like a ton of bricks: I don't want what she's offering."

"Ah!" Gordon Gordon tapped his index finger thoughtfully against his lips. "I can see how a lady-killing powerhouse such as yourself might find that a trifle disturbing. But, if it was just the one isolated incident…" Vic's growl derailed that line of thinking. "I see: a somewhat more habitual occurrence, then. Am I to understand that your sex drive has shifted permanently into neutral?"

Vic shot Gordon Gordon a quick look, but could not otherwise meet his eyes.

"You… do experience desire…" Gordon Gordon was feeling his way, watching Vic for clues as if he were playing charades with a not-especially-talented partner. "…but not for women you run across casually, so… a particular woman, then?" When Vic looked up at him, heartache plain in his eyes, Gordon Gordon made the connection. "Temperance Brennan!"

His only answer was the spasm of pain that crossed Vic's face.

"But, it makes perfect sense that you're not attracted to other females! You're in love with her. You're building a world around her, a family!"

Vic shook his head. "She doesn't love me, Chef. I'd know if she loved me."

Gordon Gordon leaned in toward his suffering friend. "You have shown enormous patience with her, Vic. Superhuman patience, really. May I counsel you be patient with her a while longer? Hope, Vic, that's my advice to you. Hope and patience." He clapped his former patient cordially on the shoulder. "Now, let's get some food into you. I have a new menu item, _cerveau d'agneau_ à la Wyatt, I insist you try…"

Across town, Tim was dining out in the company of Lance Sweets, a fellow psychologist and junior colleague. Something of a boy wonder, Sweets was making a name for himself both as a profiler and dispenser of useful advice. In his off-hours, unbeknownst to his co-workers, acquaintances and even some close friends, he pursued a second passion: the writing of psychological fiction. Sweets had long been fascinated by the dynamics of the Booth & Brennan partnerships, and was clandestinely at work on a novel not-so-loosely based on the interactions he was able to witness. To gain insight into the working of their minds and the tumult of their feelings, he was not above plying Tim with personal questions when the opportunity presented itself, as it had this evening. It must be said, in Sweets' defense, that Tim was one of the few who had been let in on his carefully-guarded secret, and Tim did not object to serving as a primary source of material, always provided that what he revealed would be so reworked in the process of novelization as to be unrecognizable by the time the story appeared in print.

"Tell me again," Sweet was saying now, as he pushed his empty dish away, and reached into his suit coat for a miniature tape-recorder. He waggled the device for Tim to acknowledge, and, receiving permission, placed it down on the table and set it going. "Why does your brother oppose your relationship to Jay?"

Tim downed the last of his ale, and wiped the foam mustache away with his napkin. "Vic thinks she's manipulative. In his view, she can't stand not to be the center of attention, so she creates problems or manufactures sadness so she can milk my soft-hearted sympathy, and keep me dangling."

"In short, he feels she's leading you on, cynically taking the comfort you offer without the least intention of reciprocating." The younger man leaned back in his chair, shoulders loose, hands relaxed in his lap; a pose meant to inspire confidences, as Tim knew very well. "But, _you_ don't see her that way."

"As I believe I've told you, Jay has issues with self-esteem. She's aware of these issues, and she's worked very hard to gain confidence in herself. Professionally, she's done quite well on that score, but, personally, she's not quite there yet."

"And, these improvements you say she's making, she was inspired to undertake them in order to be deserving of a particular 'good' man's attention."

Tim might employ the lean-back maneuver, but he drew the line at crooking his fingers. "She said so explicitly, yes."

"And though, from that day to this, she has never named the individual in question, you believe she means you."

Tim squirmed in his chair; Lance was beginning to sound more like an interrogator than a dinner companion. "I don't eliminate the possibility that it's me." He didn't say, I have lived for years in the hope she means me.

"But, that's what's kept you going all this time." Lance nodded, pleased with his evaluation. He considered Tim narrowly. "Look," he said at last, "you didn't ask my advice, and I could be totally out of line here, but what I'm seeing before me is a stalemate. You've been in a holding pattern for years, and unless somebody makes a move, you're going to be stuck going round in circles forever. You!" He raised his hand, and pointed his finger meaningfully at Tim. "You're the gambler. It has to be you!"

Tim watched as Lance sank back in his chair once again and crossed his arms over his chest, a smile on his boyish face. There was something of smugness, of self-congratulation in the pose that Tim could not quite like. It smacked of challenge, of a gauntlet thrown down, but why? How did Lance stand to profit by prodding him to act? But, even if Lance had some personal stake in the matter that Tim could not identify, did that make his advice bad? Was it finally time, indeed, to call Jay's bluff and put all his cards on the table?

When Vic returned to the apartment with a container of sautéed lamb's brains that Chef Wyatt had put up especially for Tim, he found his brother in the living room staring into space. "Hey," he said, snapping his fingers in Tim's face. "What's up? You okay? You look like you've been hypnotized or something."

"Huh? Oh." Tim had not heard the door slam or Vic's heavy footfalls. "Fine, I'm fine. Just… er, thinking."

"Yeah? 'Cause I thought for a moment there you might be catalytic."

Tim smiled despite himself. "I think you might mean 'catatonic'."

"Yeah, whatever." Vic set the brown paper bag on the coffee table, and dropped bonelessly into his recliner. "So, how'd it go tonight with Baby Shrink?"

"He… ah… gave me the benefit of his expertise. On the long game. He thinks it's time I go for it."

"What?" Vic was up and out of his chair in a moment. "No, no! No way! Gordon Gordon was very specific on the subject: patience. Patience and hope."

"I don't know, Vic." Tim shook his head. "I just don't know what's best anymore. You want to go on like this forever, you and me chasing, Jay and Brennan always just beyond reach, like passengers frozen in place on an endless carousel ride?"

"No, of course not. But, who're you going to trust on this, Tim? Some smart-ass kid still wet behind the ears, or Gordon Gordon Wyatt? He's got an English accent, for God's sake!"

Tim got to his feet wearily. "I'm going to have to sleep on this, Vic. We'll hash it over in the morning, okay?"

"Just don't do anything before you talk to me," Vic called after his retreating form. He lowered himself into his recliner, and sighed. He had a bad feeling about this.


	18. Chapter 18: Catastrophe Night

**What He Offered**

 **Chapter 18: Catastrophe Night**

Bones closed her eyes, and drew in a deep breath. She had no need of foreshadowing to dread what would come next; she had lived it, after all. She was tempted, once again, to skip ahead, but she dismissed that as cowardly. Still, there was more than one way to read, she knew, and this time, she would skim rapidly over what was sure to be a distressing section. She opened her eyes, and returned to the display.

A Tale of Twin Booths, cont'd

The next morning, Tim was still of two minds; he would not commit to further waiting but neither was he resolved on making his move. For the first time in forever, it was Vic doing the pleading. "It should be a joint decision, Tim. If you crash and burn, you could take down me with you."

"Or, we'll both of us be flying high, Vic. It's a crap shoot."

"Yeah, that's what I don't like about it! The risk is too great. Look, Tim, I'm not feeling it. The timing's just not right. Don't do this."

"I'll think about it."

That was the only concession Vic could extract from his brother, and it did little to allay his anxiety, particularly as they would be seeing Jay and Brennan at the Hoover later that day to review with Miss Julian evidence for a case that would soon be going to trial. Vic vowed to watch Tim with an eagle eye, and head off any attempt to act on Sweets' advice.

During the meeting, Tim's behavior threw up no red flags; he seemed his usual calm, urbane, courteous self, and seeing this, Vic began to relax. His twin was a team player, he wouldn't go rogue and jeopardize everything they'd worked and sacrificed to gain, however inadequate it might be. Vic felt so justified in this impression that, when the session broke up, he suggested they all go out to their favorite Thai eatery, and grab a bite.

The sisters consulted with each other briefly, and nodded in concert: sure, why not? Vic and Brennan shrugged into their outerwear, Tim helped Jay into her trench coat before slipping on his own, and a short elevator ride later, they were stepping out of the Hoover building and into the cool, rain-washed evening. As was their habit, Vic and Brennan led the way, stepping lightly down to the plaza, with Jay and Tim following close behind.

At the bottom of the stairs, Tim slowed to a stop, and stood, hands deep in his trouser pockets, waiting for Jay to notice. She turned back to him, a question in her eye. Tim gathered his courage, and, after a deep breath, took the plunge. "I'm a gambler, Jay." When she did no more than stare at him in confusion, he closed the distance between them. "This thing we have between us? I believe in giving it a shot."

From the plaza a few yards below, Brennan looked over her shoulder to share something with her sister, and saw Jay and Tim further behind than she expected, engaged in earnest conversation. Even as she watched, Jay's body tensed, and Tim moved in toward her. "Oh, no! No!" she gasped, and spinning on her heel, hurriedly retraced her steps.

"What?" Vic turned after Brennan, and was just in time to see his mild-mannered twin grab Jay by the upper arms, pull her into him, and kiss her with all the pent-up passion built up over the long years. He felt the bottom drop out of his stomach, and, swallowing down rapidly rising bile, raced after Brennan.

Jay had already freed herself from Tim's embrace, and, shaking her head 'no,' was stepping back, away from him as they approached. Vic caught his brother's plaintive question: "But, why? Why?"

Tears were streaming down Jay's cheeks, her beautiful face contorting in anguish. "I don't have your open heart!" she wailed. And then, Brennan was there, wrapping her arms around her sister, tucking her head into her shoulder, holding her as she wept.

Tim was still pleading with Jay as Vic came up to him. "Just give us chance. That's all I'm asking."

Vic knew that, later, he would be livid with his brother, but for the moment, all he could do was feel his twin's pain. "Let it go, Tim. She's not listening."

But Tim would not be silenced. The dam of his reticence had broken, and he was going to reveal it all, his dearest hopes, his powerful longing, his absolute certainty, dating back to that very first smile, that she was the one for him, the only one. "I knew," he said. "I _knew_."

In Brennan's arms, Jay's whole body shook with sobs. Brennan stroked her hair in a vain attempt to soothe her. "I thought you understood, Tim. She's been trying very hard to change, to grow stronger, but she's just not there yet."

Tim's shoulders slumped, and he turned partly away, tears brimming in his eyes. "You're right, you're right."

"Tim, please." Brennan tilted her head and looked at him beseechingly. "Don't look so sad."

Brennan has spoken some callous, unfeeling words in her time, but for Vic, that last line was unforgivable. Tim stood there before her, completely crushed, his bare heart smashed to pulp, and she wanted him to suck it up, and put a good face on it? "You have so much compassion for that sniveling little sister of yours, and none at all for Tim?" he said. "When it's all her fault? When she's been playing him unmercifully for years?" He heard his voice rising, growing harder and louder, but he did not care. Tim tried to calm him, but he was well past the point of self-restraint. "What did you call her once? 'Joyless and Ruthless.' Yes, and yes! Right as usual, Brennan! When has she ever brought more than a momentary happiness into his life? And, as for cruel, as for remorseless, when did she ever give a damn about causing Tim suffering, as long as she could build herself up at his expense?"

Brennan's chest had been heaving and falling, her nostrils flaring, her eyes narrowed into slits. "Are you done? Have you got it all off your chest now, you stupid ass?"

Vic was still so enraged on his brother's behalf, he wasn't listening. "What, suddenly you don't like the truth, Brennan? I thought truth was the ultimate good in your universe."

"You think Jay's the one at fault here, Vic? _She's_ the one to blame?" Brennan's voice had gone icy, the words clipped and sharp. "Look in the mirror sometime, moron. Be a real man for a change."

Vic could not have been more stunned if she had clobbered him with a sledge hammer. "Me?" he roared. "What the hell do I have to with any of this?"

"It's not your fault, I suppose, that silly, impressionable women fall in love with you? It has nothing to do with your relentless flirting, your charm initiatives, your endless jokey gallantry? You just _have_ to twinkle those chocolate brown eyes at any female that comes within range, don't you, Vic? It's a compulsion with you: no woman is allowed to be immune. Well, here's a news flash for you, Vic: sometimes those women you're having just a little harmless fun with think you're _serious_."

Brennan had the satisfaction of seeing Vic's jaw drop in shock and consternation, but one look at Tim's ashen face chased that bitter pleasure away. "Oh, no! No!" she breathed. The tears he had managed to hold back overflowed, not in a torrent as Jay's had, but singly, sliding down his face before being quietly brushed away. "Tim, I…" But Tim turned his face up to the sky in a desperate effort to collect himself, and she left her apology unsaid.

Vic moved to his twin's side, raised an arm as if to wrap it round Tim's shoulder, but then let it drop. "Tim, you know I would _never_ …"

"Later, Vic." He spoke flatly, without anger, without any emotion at all. "That's the least of it just now."

"Tim's right." Brennan had found a clean handkerchief in her pocket, and had given it to Jay, who was moping her face. She maneuvered her sister gently behind her, and stepped up to the Booths. "We all bear some responsibility for this fiasco, myself included. All it would have taken was a word of warning from me to Tim, and this could all have been avoided, but that's not important at the moment. What we need to decide is what this all means to us, professionally. After the things we've said to each other tonight, the things we've done, can we still be partners?"

Vic, always the point man, for once deferred to Tim. Head bowed, lips pressed into a tight, white line, Tim studied the puddle at his feet as if the answer lay hidden under its surface. Eventually, he lifted his chin, and looked a question at his brother. Vic gave the faintest nod, and, with that, Tim turned back to Brennan. "Yes. All right. We're in — professionally. But, for the record, speaking purely for myself, I… I'm going to move on. I'm done waiting. I'm going to find someone who wants what I can offer, who will love me, for myself, for the next thirty, forty, fifty years."

Brennan acknowledged this with a short nod. "I understand, Tim. And, thank you." She slipped her arm around her sister's waist, and drew her close. "I'm so sorry, Jay. I wish I had kept this from happening. But, you heard Tim. You know he can't be your best friend anymore?"

"I know," Jay whispered unsteadily.

"All right, then." Holding her sister tight to her side, Brennan started forward, and after a moment, Vic and Tim followed after. When Tim, with his longer stride, caught up to them, Brennan threaded her free arm through his, and, as a way of expressing her grief at having wounded him unintentionally, laid her head on his shoulder. After a moment, Tim's head came to rest against hers, and she knew herself to be forgiven.

On Tim's other side, Vic raised a commiserating hand to his brother's shoulder, and was nearly sick with relief when his twin did not shrug it off. They walked on together into the fallen dark, their bodies linked by touch, their emotional ties broken.

There would be no Thai food that night.


	19. Chapter 19: Criss cross

**What He Offered**

 **Chapter 19: Criss cross**

It was fortunate that the phone rang just then, breaking the spell of the unhappy past and recalling her to the wonderful present. She wiped a little moisture from under her eye with a knuckle, and picked up the phone. "Hello, Booth!"

"Hey, Bones! Listen, Mom tells me it's okay with you if she and Reggie take me and the kids out to dinner, but there's no reason you can't join us. I don't like the idea of you sitting home alone while the rest of us are having a good time."

"Don't give it another thought. I'm in good company."

"You're..?" A few seconds of silence on the other end. "What, did Angela drop over?"

"No. I've been spending the afternoon with two fascinating young men."

"Two… Bones, I don't like the sound of this."

She had to laugh. She did so enjoy pulling his nose (or was that _leg_?). "Their names are Vic and Tim Booth. You may have heard of them?"

"Oh, those two. I thought for sure you'd be done by now. It was only seventy pages. That's, like, two hours' reading, tops, for you."

"Yes, if you don't figured in the time necessary for writing comments. Look, don't keep everyone waiting. I love you for thinking of me, but I'm perfectly fine here on my own."

No immediate answer. "If you're sure…"

"'Bye, Booth!" Call ended. Back to the screen.

A Tale of Twin Booths, cont'd

Vic had looked for her everywhere: on the platform, up in the lounge, in the bone room, even in Limbo. Eventually, he found her in the last place he tried: Brennan's office. She was sitting on the couch, reading a scholarly journal, a cup of coffee cooling near to hand. He noticed that she had arranged her hair in an unusually severe chignon, and that her dress, to judge by the collar and hem not covered by her lab coat, was a somber affair, all over large lavender and grey plaid. The color brought out the violet shadows under her eyes. "Jay?"

She jumped, startled. The journal slipped from her fingers and crashed to the floor. Vic rushed forward and retrieved it for her. "Sorry," he said, holding it out to her. "I thought you heard me come in."

"Agent Booth." She took the journal from his hand with a twitch of the lips that was meant to pass for a smile. "Tempe's not here. I believe she ran over to the Founding Fathers to meet a colleague."

"Actually, it's you I came to see. Do you have a minute? I promise I won't be long."

"Of course." She indicated a chair, her eyes never rising above his shirt collar. "How can I help you?"

For starters, he wanted to say, you could look the hell up at me, but instead, he dragged the chair a little bit closer, and sat down. "I want to apologize, Jay…"

"I think," she broke in, "while we're here at the Jeff, or at headquarters, you should call me 'Miss Keenan.' It's… more professional."

If she had spoken with bitterness, or snidely, he might have been irked, but her tone was impersonal, even pleasant, unobjectionable. "I was unfair to you the other night…" He stumbled over the new form of address, but eventually brought out, "… Miss Keenan. I lost my temper, and said things about you I had no business saying…"

"Things that you meant, all the same. There's no need to deny it, Agent Booth. I treated Tim…" She paused, drew a breath. "… your brother badly. In my defense, I would just like to say that it was never my intention to hurt him. In my own stupid way, I thought I was being honest with him, but I can see, now, why he misunderstood me. I am not a cruel person, Agent Booth. Thoughtless, self-absorbed, oblivious, yes, I plead guilty. And sadder, too, if it makes you feel any better."

"No…" He only just stopped himself from calling her "Jay." He felt a stab of grief at the loss. "I don't want you to be sad. I want you to forgive me, not only for the things I said in anger, but for anything I may have done to make you think I harbored feelings stronger than friendship for you. What words did you use just now? Thoughtless, self-absorbed, oblivious? I plead guilty, too. I didn't mean harm any more than you did, but that's neither here not there. The fact is, I hurt three people I care about, and for that, I am truly sorry."

She did venture to look at him, then. "I forgive you, Agent Booth, but I hope you understand we can't be friends. Someday maybe, but not now. For the moment, I think we should confine ourselves to being colleagues." She set the journal aside, stood up, and extended a hand to him. "Thank you for stopping in today. I appreciate your candor. Please let me know when I can be of assistance."

There was nothing to do but take her hand and her dismissal. "Good-bye… Miss Keenan."

Meanwhile, at the Founding Fathers, Tim was sitting at the bar, nursing a glass of Scotch. He was usually a beer or ale man, but he was more in the mood, of late, for higher-proof libations. When the woman appeared at his elbow, he noticed her perfume first, the heady fragrance of jasmine, familiar. He'd given Jay a bottle one Christmas, mostly because he liked the name: Patou Joy. The woman wore glossy black pumps, and a jersey wrap dress, patterned all over with blue, pink and gray splotches more suggestive of flowers than any recognizable variety. When he raised his eyes to her face, he saw the same enchanting blue eyes, but they were not Jay's.

"Are you drunk?" Brennan asked.

"Not yet, but that might be this train's final destination."

"Mind sharing the ride?"

"Suit yourself. I have it on good authority it's still a free country."

Brennan settled herself on the stool next to his, and motioned to the bartender, who set her usual drink in front of her. "Vic said I'd find you here."

"Vic?" He shot her a glance out of the corner of his eye. "I'm surprised you're giving him the time of day, the way you lambasted him the other night."

"That was the anger talking. The way he lit into Jay…" She shook her head, remorseful. "It wasn't my finest hour. It's not as though he sets out to seduce women, after all. I don't think it even occurs to him that women might fall for him. He's not at all vain, which is remarkable, really, considering his symmetrical features and broad shoulders."

"I remember your cousin Margaret criticizing his eyes as being too close together."

"Ah, Margaret!" Brennan said, with a fondness Tim found surprising. "There's one woman he couldn't charm — not that he didn't try. That flirting of his, I know he doesn't mean anything by it. He just doesn't seem to understand the effect it has. You're much more sensitive than he is, Tim. I've often thought Vic could stand to be a bit more like you."

"Brennan, if I had a dime for every time I've heard that from a beautiful woman, I could retire right now to a tropical island."

She took a sip of her Scotch. "I hear Turks and Caicos is nice." Brennan smiled to hear Tim's short burst of laughter. "Anyway, enough about Vic. I came here to apologize to you, Tim. I hope you know I never meant to hurt you."

"Forget it, Brennan. You didn't act out of malice, I'm sure of that. And, besides, I should have known: Vic always did get all the girls."

"And, I should have warned you about Jay's infatuation, but, well, it was told to me in confidence, and, in any event, I thought I could help her see that Vic wasn't interested in her romantically. _That_ was a major miscalculation."

Brennan admitting to a mistake? Now she had his attention. "How do you mean?"

"I shouldn't have to explain it to you, Tim. _You're_ the psychologist."

Tim was intrigued despite himself. He thought back to what Brennan had told him. "You used the word 'infatuated.' So, you don't think she really loves Vic?"

Brennan snorted, a most inelegant sound. "Heavens, no!"

He turned the facts over in his mind: Jay's lack of self-confidence, her abysmal choice in men, her doomed relationships… "You think Vic was Jay's girlish crush, a man she could safely assume wouldn't want her, the man enamored of her sister."

"Exactly. She put all her energy into loving an unavailable man as a way of avoiding a real relationship where her fears of inadequacy might be proved right."

The one thing Tim had never lacked was respect for Brennan's genius, but now he regarded her with new esteem. "You astonish me, Brennan!"

"I learned from the best, Agent Booth!" She clinked her glass against his.

They drank companionably for a few moments. Then, Tim was moved to say, "Brennan, do you remember the time - we were on our way here, I seem to recall - when I told you I loved you?"

Brennan favored him with a wry look. "As if I could forget! It was not long after your brain surgery. You no sooner said it, than you took it back."

"That's not what I remember. I added: 'as a friend'."

Brennan laughed. "And, you socked me in the shoulder — not hard, more as a form of ritual violence intended to cement our bond. What of it?"

"Well, I've just now realized it's true: I do love you, Brennan, as a dear friend."

She smiled at him. "Wonders will never cease, Tim. Just think: after the terrible start we got off to, I've come to love you, too."

Tim gestured to the bartender. "Another round here for me and my drinking buddy."

When they had been resupplied, Tim raised his glass. "Here's to you, Temperance Brennan, a true and faithful friend."

"And, here's to you, Tim." Brennan lifted her glass in turn, and grinned wickedly. "Sweetie."


	20. Chapter 20: Calls of Duty

**What He Offered**

 **Chapter 19: Calls of Duty**

Bones glanced up quickly at the wall clock: time was flowing by too rapidly to allow for reflection, but she found this latest development in the tale - the new alliance between old adversaries Tim and Brennan, and the new estrangement between casual friends Vic and Jay - difficult to understand. What did it all mean? If Jay represented her past emotional insecurity, then, apparently Booth had both blamed her for it and was angry (Vic) _and_ blamed himself for exposing it and was sad (Tim). If she understood correctly, the angry part of Booth subsequently admitted that he'd been unfair to blame her for something she couldn't help but that did not change the fact of her unreadiness, which then resulted in that troubled period when they were ill-at-ease and unsure how to be together. She thought that was right, but she would just have to read on, and see if her interpretation was borne out.

A Tale of Twin Booths, cont'd

In the aftermath of the Catastrophe, it was as if, once again, Fate had pushed the reset button all the way back to Calamity Day. Vic was walking on eggshells around Brennan again, being very careful to stay on her good side, acting the consummate professional while Brennan was her usual cool, left-brained self with him. As for Jay, or rather Miss Keenan as she now preferred to be addressed, the Booths saw her in passing at the lab, or at headquarters, where she behaved with perfect civility and reserve as befitted a junior colleague. If Vic or Tim stopped by the condo to pick Brennan up, or to drop off paperwork, Jay made herself scarce. There was the occasional awkward encounter, such as the time when Tim, while waiting to see Jay into an elevator, tried to assuage any guilt she might feel about having hurt him by mentioning casually his up-coming date with marine biologist Dr. Catherine Bryar. In the end, though, his well-meaning attempt at comfort had only caused both of them more pain, and he was careful thereafter, when one-on-one with Jay, to keep personal topics to a minimum.

The one huge innovation was Tim's relationship with Brennan. Whereas, at the outset, they had been as cats and dogs, hissing and barking at each other, now they were comfortable together as a pair of old shoes, not only co-workers but friends. It was no longer rare for Brennan to take Tim's side against Vic, or to actively seek out Tim's psychological expertise, developments about which Vic felt ambivalent.

Insecure though he might be about some aspects of their partnership, when Brennan first broached the subject of the archeological dig in Maluku, it did not occurred to Vic at all that she might be tempted to take part. "Brennan's not going anywhere," he repeatedly assured anyone who wondered aloud if Brennan might join the expedition. But then, word reached him that Jay had been accepted as a participant, and that she was urging her sister to go, too. _That_ put a whole different spin on the situation.

"I can see it's a fantastic opportunity for Jay," Vic told Tim. While the brothers respected Jay's wishes to be addressed formally in public, between themselves Vic and Tim continued to refer to her as they had before. "She can use her research there as the basis for her doctoral dissertation, and maybe even co-author a series of articles. But, Brennan's needed here. There's no call for her to go jaunting halfway around the globe!"

"Brennan's first great love is anthropology," Tim reminded him. "Given the choice of investigating grizzly murders or unearthing remains of potentially historic significance, of course she's going to want to go."

"You don't think she wants to get away from _me_? Personally, I mean. I've cut way back on the charm smiles, and eye twinkling. And, definitely no bantering, teasing or suggestive talk around headquarters and the lab. Except for Miss Julian," he added for honesty's sake. "Brennan can't object to that, right?"

"We've been over this before, Vic: Brennan doesn't hold your flirting against you. I've even heard her apologize to you for the language she used that night."

"The language, yeah, but she still meant what she said. In her view, I'm some kind of clueless Cosa Nostra."

"I think you mean 'Casanova,' and for the last time, Brennan doesn't _blame_ you. And, keep in mind, she'll only be gone a year. I know it's a long time, but _she'll come back to you_ , Vic. You can trust me when I say she's not leaving you forever."

"Your new BFF told you that, in so many words?"

"No, we share a telepathic connection." Tim reached into the pocket of his suit coat, and extracted the letter from the Secretary of Defense that U.S. Army colonel Pelant had handed him some days before. He added, distractedly, "I know she'll be back, because I know _her_."

Vic snatched the well-worn envelope and its contents out of his twin's hand. "You're not going to Afghanistan, and she's not going to Maluku! That's final."

"That's not your call to make, Vic," Tim said, wearily. "I can do a hell of a lot more good counseling traumatized soldiers on active duty than I'm doing here, profiling inveterate criminals and advising colleagues on how to handle their minor personal woes."

If that was all there was to it, Vic knew he would not stand so adamantly in Tim's way. He was mortally afraid for his twin, however, because under that exterior of apparent calm and philosophical acceptance, Vic suspected that Tim was heartsick unto death. Though he talked a good game, and presented an easy-going front, Tim was grieving hard, and it was all the worse for his keeping it locked away inside. Vic had tried to get Tim to open up, but his brother fobbed him off at every turn, with claims of being "fine, fine." But, Tim was far from fine; he was sinking into depression, and Vic feared he was heading to Afghanistan to get himself killed. "Yeah? Well, I'm not letting you go into a war zone without me, bro, and, while _your_ services to the FBI may be far from critical, _mine_ are absolutely vital to the safety and security of the greater D. C. area, so you just take that into account when you're weighing your options."

Tim sighed. "No one's indispensable, Vic."

Not long after, when Vic heard the news that Brennan had been asked to lead the Maluku dig, he saw the writing on the wall. So, as before when he was in danger of losing her to Sully, he had time to contemplate his answer, and had it ready when she admitted to him that she would like to accept the offer.

"I thought you already had," he said, sulky as a preschooler who has no choice but to accept a grievous disappointment.

"We've been partners for over five years," Brennan said, confused by his churlishness. "I wouldn't accept the position without discussing it with you first. Vic, please, look at me." When he'd complied, sheepish at having behaved badly, she went on, "I think you know how exciting the prospect of exploring this new find is for me, but I would've passed it up and stayed here in D. C. if it weren't for Jay. She's still grieving, Vic. I can't let her go alone. She needs my support and encouragement. I'm all she has."

Vic sighed, nodded. "I see that. And, I'll answer the call to service, and go back to the Army."

Brennan smiled, sadly. "To train soldiers, and prevent lives being lost unnecessarily?"

"And, to look out for Tim. He's in a bad way, too, Brennan. I've already done my duty to my country; my conscience is clear on that score. But I still have a duty to my twin, just as you have a duty to Jay. So, where Tim goes, I go."

"And, it's only for a year, after all."

"Yeah, what's a year in the grand scheme of things, eh, Brennan? We'll be back busting bad guys before you know it."

Vic and Tim were already in uniform on the day Jay and Brennan were due to depart for Indonesia, and they had to sneak off base to see them off. As they raced down the concourse, Vic remembered the last time he had hustled through this particular airport: that time, he'd been rushing "to rescue" Brennan from Homeland Security in an attempt to entice her back to the FBI, and now, he was there to tell her good-bye, to let her go. When he finally caught sight of the sisters, Jay was poised to head to the boarding gate, but Brennan was craning her neck, looking about her anxiously. When she spotted them, she brightened, and hurried to meet them halfway.

Tim was before him. Brennan threw her arms around his neck, and hugged him close. "Sorry we're late," Vic heard Tim say, "Couldn't get leave. Had to go AWOL."

Brennan sank back on her heels and released him. "I'm so glad you did! Tim, _promise_ me you'll stay safe. Please, sweetie, don't take any foolish chances." But, Tim wasn't listening. He had seen Jay over her shoulder. "Go," Brennan said, sending him off with a little push.

Vic closed the distance between them, and took Brennan's hand. In shared concern, they watched their twins take leave of each other. Jay hugged Tim awkwardly, all hesitation and spastic movement, and then, Tim was speaking, Jay's hand in his, and she was nodding her understanding, head bowed, a single tear dripping down her cheek. When Tim stepped back, he had to pull his hand away, so tight was her grip. He turned smartly on his heel, marched up and past them up the concourse, and never once looked back.

Brennan watched him disappear into the crowd, and sighed. She turned back to Vic, and fixed her wide blue eyes on his. "I've got to go," she said, but her body, as though rooted in place before him said, _I want to stay._

Vic stepped up to her. In his life, a great deal had been required of him — enormous sacrifice, enormous patience, enormous pain — but this, this saying good-bye, was the severest demand of all. "You take care of yourself out there in the jungle, Brennan. Watch out for bandits, and venous snakes."

"And, you, don't be a hero. Please, Vic, don't be yourself."

He tried to manage a cocky smile for her, but his bravery didn't extend that far. He choked out, "A year from today, Brennan, at the reflecting pool…"

"By the coffee cart. I know. A year from today."

And, still she gripped his hand so tight. The loudspeaker announced final boarding: her flight to Jakarta. He gave her fingers one last squeeze, and extricated his hand. His desire to catch her up in his arms and hold her, hold her, hold her was so strong, he had to turn on a dime, and stride quickly away so as not to ruin everything and give in. When he was far enough away to outstrip temptation, he allowed himself a final look back, only to find her walking slowly away, head turned over her shoulder, her feet saying _I have to go_ , her eyes saying _I want to stay_.

In truth, what's a year in the grand scheme of things? What are a mere seven months, for that matter? Time enough, as it turned out, for everything to go to hell.


	21. Chapter 21: Call waiting

Chapter 21: Call waiting

Yes, Bones thought, Booth had seen the truth of her that day at the airport: she had been so very conflicted. Caroline Julian had characterized their decision to go their separate ways for a year as "running away from each other," but Bones had not seen it in the same light. It wasn't Booth she had been running from, but rather the unremitting stress of their equivocal relationship. Like the four principle characters in the tale, she and Booth had both been torn between approach (generally speaking, Vic and Brennan) and avoidance (Tim and Jay). The tension had reached unendurable proportions; _that_ was the reason she had gone to that far-flung corner of the world, and, for her at least, the isolation afforded her in the rainforests of Maluku had provided her the breathing room she'd needed to decide who she really was, and what she wanted. For Booth, it had been, perhaps, a different story, but that was his tale to tell.

A Tale of Twin Booths, cont'd

It could not be said that Vic and Tim made the transition back to military life easily. They were no longer very young men who adapted to unappetizing rations, rickety canvas cots and unreliable air-conditioning with aplomb. Their first month in Afghanistan, where the heat routinely rose to 120 degrees during the day, and where bursts of small arms fire shattered their sleep at nights, was trying to the max, but they gradually became accustomed to spending their working hours in sweat-soaked clothes, dealing with oft-recurring intestinal complaints, and placing every footfall with extreme care.

During those first few weeks, Vic kept close tabs on Tim, afraid that at any moment his twin, whether by design or recklessness, would put himself in the path of danger. He tried his best to share at least breakfast and dinner with him every day, to make sure he ate. As a mental health specialist, Tim did not go out on patrol, so Vic did not have to worry about his being injured in an attack, but guns routinely misfired and mortar shells fell inside the base, too, so Tim was never entirely out of harm's way. One afternoon, Vic learned that his twin had been spotted with a red-stained towel clamped to his face, his uniform stained with cherry-colored dots. Vic dropped everything and ran to find him, only to discover that the day's brutal heat had caused Tim's nose to bleed. Vic had feared the worst.

As the weeks wore on, Vic's anxiety about Tim began to lessen. His twin had found purpose in his work as a counselor, and, while no less desperately unhappy, had slapped sundry bandages on his broken heart in order to be able to provide crucial services to the soldiers who came to him with their gut-wrenching feelings of guilt, grief or simple homesickness. He let them pour out their loneliness, misgivings and soul-anguish without interruption or judgment, and, if they needed to cry, he did not make them feel unmanly, but rather placed an arm comfortingly around their shoulders and held them silently while they wept, never once tearing up himself. He gained such a reputation as a spirit-guide and healer that he became known across the base, affectionately, as Father Tim.

By the end of week six, Vic's life had taken on a steady rhythm: he trained recruits of the Afghan National Army in counter-insurgency techniques during the day, and, after an evening's weightlifting or a few games of low-stakes poker, would retire to his cot. Enclosing himself in his bed tent against the swarms of insects, camel spiders and scorpions that were intent on making a meal of him, he would take out his reading material of choice: a visitor's guide to Indonesia. Some nights he would read descriptions of the local landmarks and points of interest, but mostly he would flip through the pictures of white-sand beaches lined with palm trees, or thatch-roofed huts built over blue-green waters and try to imagine Brennan there, her hair lightened to chestnut in the sun, her bare shoulders tanned. She hadn't phoned or e-mailed once over the weeks they'd been separated, but at each day's close, he called to mind the sight of her looking back over her shoulder at him with longing, summoned patience against his disappointment, and endured.

As the second month passed without any word from her, Vic began to worry about her safety. Had she fallen afoul of one of the armed bands reputed to roam the Northern Maluku Province? Were she and her team stranded in the rainforest somewhere? Was there a dire health emergency? He watched the TV news nightly, and checked for stories about the expedition on line, but there was no disturbance reported.

By the third month of silence, Vic was concerned enough to broach the topic with Tim. "I thought for sure she'd have gotten in touch by now."

"Listen, Vic, you know as well as I do that Maluku is an isolated corner of the world. Who knows what cell phone reception is like out there, or if she's anywhere near a town with internet access. Plus, she's probably devoting every available hour to the dig so she can accomplish as much as possible in the short time she has. Quit worrying!"

Good advice, but not practical… In the evenings, when Vic took out his well-thumbed guidebook, he began to notice the young, brown-skinned men in the photos, their bodies lithe and powerful from physically-demanding work, whether in the depths of the forest or out on the sea. They were handsome devils, too, with their broad, strong-featured faces, their bright white smiles and glossy black hair. Brennan was especially susceptible to the well-muscled type of masculine beauty, and not a proponent of sexual abstinence…

"God, give me patience!" Tim fumed. "If it's driving you this crazy, call Brennan yourself!"

"Don't you think, after all this time, she should make the first move?"

Tim rolled his eyes in disgust. "What are you, a preteen girl?"

Late in the fourth month, Vic decided to take Tim's advice, and reach out to Brennan himself. It took him days to obtain a likely phone number. Angela, in France, was not answering email sent to her work account, Brennan's father, Max, was incommunicado, and Cam did not have an emergency contact number for Brennan on file. As a last resort, he contacted the ever-resourceful Caroline Julian, who, out of love for his chocolate-brown eyes, worked some magic and wangled him the information he needed. "I haven't been able to get through to her, myself," she cautioned him, in her charming Southern drawl, "but I only gave it one try." Vic tried many, many times, and though the phone rang and rang, no one ever picked up.

Vic lay in bed, early in the fifth month of silence, trying to evoke his talisman image of Brennan looking _I want to stay_ so clearly back at him, but it was increasingly overlaid by harrowing scenes of Brennan finding consolation in the arms of some island hunk she'd hired on to help with the heavy lifting, or Brennan, happily digging away and not sparing a thought for her long-time partner sweltering in the heat and caked with the dust of a country at war, or Brennan, entranced by the natural splendor and archeological possibilities of Indonesia, resigning her post at the Jeffersonian in order to remain there indefinitely.

"You are being ridiculous," Tim told him, impatiently. "Brennan asked for your blessing, and you _gave_ it to her. You promised her a _year_ , and you can't manage a measly five months?"

"But, not so much as a peep, Tim. Not a single sign."

"You want my advice, Vic? Go read the Book of Job. In the Bible," he added scathingly, when Vic's brow knit into a frown. "Pay special attention to verse 38:3."

Vic regarded his brother with some concern. "You know, don't you, that 'Father Tim' is just a nickname? You're not really in holy orders."

"Go back to work, Vic. I've got people with real problems to see."

Tim's absolute trust in Brennan comforted Vic for a while. His twin and his beloved had grown so close of late, it did almost seem that each knew what the other was thinking. And, when the Bible verse Tim had recommended — "Gird up now thy loins like a man" — proved to be, in essence, the same advice as Gordon Gordon Wyatt's "Grow a set," he was strengthened in his resolve to keep faith with Brennan, and endure, no matter the hardship. But, then, thoughts of Tim's inglorious romantic history, of what a soft-touch he was with women would rise up to haunt him. Tim had been easy to manipulate as far back as their mother, whose return Tim had also confidently anticipated, and how had that turned out? Vic's doubts returned, redoubled and continued to multiply.

As the sixth month of no communication dawned, Vic's hope, faith and charity had nearly bottomed out. It was then, on a day when he and his unit successfully saved the lives of a sexy blonde female reporter and her crew, that Vic faced a terrible temptation. He allowed himself, somewhat reluctantly, to be led by the rescued damsel into the shade of a fruiting fig tree where she sank down into the sparse grass with the clear intention of thanking him most vigorously for his efforts on her behalf. Vic drew back from her at first, but the adrenaline pumping through his veins, and the desolation in his heart urged him to action. He thought of Brennan — _I want to stay, I want to stay_ — but she had left him, he was all alone in a world of hurt without her, and Hannah Burley was right there, delectable as any daughter of Eve, willing, eager, practically panting. When she gave a last insistent tug on his hand, Vic surrendered, and let himself fall.

"Are you sure it was a _fig_ tree?" Tim asked, when Vic confessed all to his twin later. "Did you happen to notice a snake in the branches?"

"A snake?" Vic shuddered. "God, I hope not. Snakes give me the creeps. I didn't know they could climb trees. Really?"

Tim sighed. "I absolve you, my brother. Go forth, and sin no more."

But, alas, the sinning had only just begun.


	22. Chapter 22: Cardinal Sin

What He Offered

Chapter 22: Cardinal Sin

Bones could ill-afford to squander time reflecting on what she'd just read, but she couldn't resist returning to those last few lines. Adam and Eve, really! A bit grandiose, but funny all the same, particularly the snake. Booth's familiarity with the Bible was serving him well; that reference to Job was especially apt. And, there was Tim portrayed as a minister, too. She wondered if Booth had been inspired by Max' one-time impersonation of a priest, but decided against it. Would the religious theme be continued? Bones resumed her reading.

A Tale of Twin Booths, cont'd

Following that romp in the shade of the fig leaves, Vic resolved not to see Hannah Burley again. He was ashamed of his faithlessness, but given the fatal conjunction of Hannah's exceptional boldness and his own desperate sadness, he forgave himself, even as Tim did, for succumbing to temptation. It was entirely understandable, and would not happen again, particularly as their enormously satisfying coupling had taken much of his edge off.

If, soon after, Hannah and her crew had been directed elsewhere, Vic likely would have forgotten her completely, or, at most, remembered her gratefully as a very pleasant interlude, but in the event, she remained in the immediate area, and frequently crossed Vic's path. A lusty young woman, pursuing a high-profile career in dangerous circumstances, Hannah lived for the moment: she had no compunction about grabbing with gusto all the many and varied pleasures life had to offer. She believed firmly in not putting off until tomorrow what she could enjoy today, and, when she determined she wanted something or someone, she did not take "no" for an answer. Vic had shown her a damn fine time in the fig arbor, and she saw not a single reason why he should not continue to do so.

Now into the seventh month of Brennan's silence, Vic's spirits had reached their nadir, and so, when Hannah put the moves on him, he did not always refuse to lose himself in her for a time. She was a very agreeable companion, always up for fun and frolics, charismatic, light-hearted, and generous. She found ways to make him laugh, to make him forget, if only briefly.

On one occasion, as they lay tangled in her sheets, their sweat-drenched bodies cooling, she raised herself up on one elbow, and looked down at him admiringly. "Wow," she said. "Just… wow! You know that little thing you did…?"

"Which little thing?" He grinned at her.

She slapped his arm playfully. "You know! The one you picked up from the pages of that recent best-seller. Don't deny it! That move was described in a sex scene I read. Hold on just a minute… it'll come to be me. Oh!" Her brown eyes sparkled, and her smile spread from ear to ear. "It was in a crime thriller, I can't think of the name, but the main character's an FBI man. Agent Lester… no, Lister! That's it. Come to think of it," she said, with a teasing lear, "you remind me a lot of Agent Andy."

Vic kept the grin fixed on his face with an effort. "I get that a lot."

Tim continued to maintain that no one person is indispensable, but he had become so much in demand by the soldiers on the base that he came as close as made no difference. Consequently, when Tim set aside time to seek him out in the weight room, Vic was both thankful and gratified. "Good to see you, bro! Hey, man, I've missed you!"

Tim shook the hand Vic extended, but his demeanor was oddly cool. "That right? From what I've heard, you've had plenty of company lately, far more entertaining than mine."

Vic reached into his duffel, took out two bottles of relatively-cold water and passed one to Tim. He broke the seal on his own container, and drank deeply. He had a strong suspicion he knew what was on his brother's mind. "I've been keeping busy, yeah."

"By 'busy,' you mean shooting off your gun? The one that wasn't firing so well a short while ago?"

Vic did not like Tim's tone. "You want to just spit it out, Tim? I take it this is not exactly a social call."

"Have it your way, Vic," Tim said, with a shrug. "Hannah Burley: you know what she is?"

"A gorgeous, intelligent woman who's sexy as hell and a barrel of laughs?"

"Okay, fine: she's all of that. She's also a player, Vic, a good time girl, a thrill-seeker. She's not cut out for settling down. You know that, right?"

"Sure, sure, I know that. I've got eyes."

Tim regarded his brother thoughtfully for a long while, then nodded, apparently satisfied. "Just a wartime fling, then? Nothing more?"

"Of course not!" Vic attempted a hearty chuckle, with limited success. "What do you take me for?"

Later that night, as he lay in his cot courting sleep, Vic called up the sacred image of Brennan, and tried with all his might to possess his troubled soul in patience. The familiar mental film clip played against the screen of his closed eyelids: Brennan walking away, trailing her carry-on suitcase behind her, her head over her shoulder, looking back at him with… _longing_ , he'd always thought, but was it? Conditioned by six full months of silence, Vic examined Brennan's look afresh and saw how hope, wishful thinking or a combination of both might have misled him. There was sadness in her eyes, certainly, but was that sadness for both of them, for the separation they were about to endure, or only for him? Her message might not have been _I want to stay_ at all, but _I'm sorry_ , and not _I'm sorry I have to leave you_ , but _I'm sorry my leaving hurts you, but you are not enough to hold me here_. Maybe what he had, willfully, mistaken for _longing_ was, in the final analysis, mere pity.

Vic Booth had never been a quitter; he'd been knocked down many times, but he'd always gotten back on his feet and taken up the fight. But, in this, the darkest moment of his soul, when his last lifeline to Brennan failed him, he acknowledged himself defeated, and withdrew from the long game. For Tim, the game had ended with a bang: he'd called Jay's bluff, only to discover he held the losing hand, but, for Vic, who simply folded, conceding the game, it ended with barely a whimper. Vic, like Tim, made the heart-crushing choice to move on.

From that night forward, Vic gave himself over completely to Hannah. She wanted the little he could offer? Fine, whatever: they would laugh themselves sick, drink themselves blind, and screw their heads off until exhaustion overcame them. If it was not what he wanted, it was what he had, and it was far, far better than nothing.

When, early one morning in the seventh month, a forceful knock sounded on Hannah's hotel room door, she immediately assumed it was her cameraman come to roust her for the day. She was running late, as usual, but it only remained for her to grab her equipment bag. "I'll be right with you, Wesley!" She threw the door open, and stared, taken by surprise. "Oh! Sorry! I was expecting… Never mind! Come in. Vic! He's in the bathroom," she explained, in a lower voice. "Vic! It's your brother."

"I've come at a bad time," Tim said, retreating into the corridor. "I'll just wait for Vic in the lobby."

"No need. Seriously! Come in. I'm sorry to rush out on you like this…" She hefted the strap of the heavy bag onto her shoulder, and smiled brightly. "But you know the old saying: the news never sleeps!" Vic, garbed in nothing more than his boxer shorts, emerged from the bathroom. She turned to him, and lifted her face imperiously for his good-bye kiss. "Got to go! See you tonight, lover! Catch you next time," she called to Tim, as she filed her way swiftly out of the room.

Vic snatched up his pants, and began to pull them on. "So… long time no see."

Without bothering to close the door, Tim ambled into the room. "That your way of admitting you've been avoiding me?"

"Avoiding you? Hell, no!" He picked up his rumpled shirt, and slipped his arms into the sleeves. "Been… occupied, that's all."

"That's one way to put it," Tim muttered. He gestured vaguely toward the disordered bed, the clothes strewn about pell mell, the general clutter. "What's going on here, bro?"

Vic attacked the button band with a vengeance. "What's it look like?"

"A cheap brothel, at a guess." Tim's nose wrinkled primly. "Smells like one, too."

"Judging from first hand experience, Father Tim?" Vic finished the last button, and began tucking his shirt tail in.

"Always the joker." Tim stepped over to the window, and stood for a moment gazing down into the street. In the early morning light, he looked thinner, his face haggard. "I won't beat around the bush, Vic. Tell me straight up: what's with you and Hannah Burley?"

Something in his twin's attitude rubbed Vic the wrong way. He struggled to put his finger on it: Tim was not quite scornful, or condemning… sanctimonious, that was the word. It made him want to take Tim down a peg. "I've been meaning to tell you, Tim. I love her."

Vic had the satisfaction of seeing Tim blanch. "You… love… her," he repeated, as if this were a statement that defied immediate comprehension. " _You_ love Hannah Burley." When Vic let silence speak for him, Tim went on, "And Brennan, Vic? Just where does that leave her?"

"Brennan doesn't love me, Tim. I've made my peace with it. I'm moving on."

"So, Brennan doesn't love you. And you know this, how? Not enough physical evidence? If she'd let her grieving sister go off alone in order to stay with you, would that have been proof enough? How about if she'd jeopardized her expedition so she could phone or email you once a week…?"

"How about just fucking _once_?" Vic broke in, unable to contain himself.

"Is that what this is? A temper tantrum? You can't get what you want when you want, so you throw in the towel?"

Vic balled his hands into fists, trying to hold onto his anger. "Just shut your trap!" he hissed. "What do you even know about it?"

"Really? You're seriously asking me that question? You think I don't envy the hell out of you? If Jay had asked _me_ for a year to let her go and think about giving us a chance, do you think I'd've flinched? Do you think I'd've folded?" He took a moment to collect himself. Even at a distance, Vic could see that Tim was trembling. "Don't do this, Vic. Don't give up on Brennan. She deserves better from you."

"And, what about me? What about what _I_ deserve?" he countered, bitterly. "You're so all-fired concerned with protecting her interests. What about mine? Why are you siding with her against me? I'm your brother!"

The look Tim turned on his twin was deeply sorrowful. He shook his head. "I don't know who you are anymore, Vic. The brother I know would never choose Hannah Burley over Temperance Brennan."

Vic laughed, a short, humorless sound. "That right? Well, if you think Brennan's such a prize, why don't you take her on, _sweetie_? She likes you a whole lot better than me these days."

Tim stared at him, stunned. "Oh, my God," he breathed out. "You really _are_ a moron."

Their father, Brennan, now Tim: three voices, always the same verdict. "What'd you just call me?"

"You heard me," Tim said, coming away from the window toward him. "You don't like it, go ahead and knock my block off. _That's_ a brother I'd recognize." He stood well within arm's reach, doing nothing to defend himself, his eyes full of challenge. "No? Too bad." He pushed past Vic, and wended his way toward the door.

"Hey, where're you going? We're not done here!"

Tim paused on the threshold and turned back to face him. "That's where you're wrong, Vic. As long as you're with Hannah, you and I are done. You got that? When you get your fool head out of your ass, you know where to find me." He swept into the hallway and disappeared from sight.

Vic rushed out after him, and stood watching his tall, slender brother stride away. "Don't hold your breath!" he called after him, but Tim gave no sign of having heard.


	23. Chapter 23: Correspondence

What He Offered

Chapter 23: Correspondence

Bones stopped to wonder: if she had mailed, say, one letter a month to Booth in Afghanistan, would she have spared herself the eight months of misery that followed her return to D. C.? That is certainly what Booth's narrative suggested. His soft-hearted side (Tim) had argued for continued trust and patience, but that was Tim's nature: to be passive, to wait. It was different for the hard-hearted side (Vic), whose first instinct was to be active, to chase. Once Vic had determined that she had passed beyond his reach, continuing to chase was senseless. She acknowledged that, in not sending the letters she had written, she had played a part in sealing her sad fate.

To say she had written letters was inexact. Before leaving for Indonesia, she had procured a supply of hardbound journals with the intention of filling their unlined pages with drawings of the skeletal remains as they presented _in situ_ and also once unearthed. She planned to take photos as well, of course, but there was this advantage to making drawings of the bones: in addition to the simple pleasure the activity brought her, she could pencil in notations and observations right on the same page.

Over the weeks in Maluku, she filled several volumes with sketches, some merely workmanlike and others quite beautiful. In those troubled months, studying the bones and limning their shapes on paper was a kind of therapy, a zen practice. But she was a writer as well as a competent draftswoman, and it soon occurred to her that she could fill some of the journals with words alone. From previous experience in keeping a diary, she knew it would help her focus to have an audience in mind, and so, the first night, when she sat down with the glaring white of the page before her, she wrote, "Dear Booth."

She did not censor herself: she confided all her doubts, confusions, regrets and speculations to the page. She completed the first volume by the end of the third month, and took up a second. And then, she had a daring thought: she would send the completed journal to Booth in Afghanistan. She had set her feelings down as they came to her, all jumbled up and hazy, so perhaps he would be able to make neither head nor tail of them, but they were honest feelings and true, so he might, equally, value them for that reason alone. She vacillated: to send or not to send, send, yes or send, no? She went so far as to enclose the journal in a padded manila envelope and, if a post office had been less than half a day's car ride away, she might have taken the plunge and mailed it off, but in the end, for one reason or another, she hadn't. She wondered what she'd done with those volumes…

She glanced at her Patek-Philippe wrist watch. Heavens, look at the time! She turned back to the screen, and discovered, to her surprise, that the next section looked epistolary in form…

A Tale of Twin Booths, cont'd

 _Dear Brennan,_ I dare to hope that now that you have emerged from the rainforests of Maluku, you will be able to read and respond to email sent to your work account. I entreat you, as a voice crying out to you from the desert wilderness, take pity on me and let me have some news of you, and, if you are feeling particularly generous, news of our mutual friends. I really miss you. _Tim_

 _Dear Tim_ , it would serve you right if I disappointed your expectations as you did mine when you failed to turn up at the reflecting pool with Vic, but I have so few opportunities to be the bigger person in our relationship that it would be profligate of me to pass this one up. So, I will put your greatest concern immediately to rest and tell you that I am as ever hale and hearty, and in good general spirits. I would love to be assured via return email that you are the same.

As I say, it was a most unwelcome shock to me that you chose to remain in Afghanistan instead of rejoining our team. I understand that you are an invaluable asset on the base (as a sort of father confessor, of all things), but selfishly, I want you back in D. C. where I can monopolize your attention, or, at worst, share you with only a few select others. Your stand-in, Dr. Lancelot Sweets, is a nice enough boy, but he is in no way your replacement. Which is to say: I miss you, too, sweetie.

I don't know how often you and Vic are in communication. I have the impression (I hope incorrect) that you and he are somewhat on the outs at the moment, so, as time permits, I will fill you in on what's new here as if you were entirely out of the loop.

You didn't ask about Jay by name, but I expect she's foremost on your mind. Jay remained in Maluku when I was recalled. She has made several good friends among the members of the archeological team, including the eminent Dr. Fred Burkle who has taken a particular interest in her. I have no doubt I left her in very good hands. She will return when the expedition wraps up in a few weeks.

I have met Vic's Hannah. I admit it took only one look at her photo to see why Vic was attracted to her: she's nearly a clone of Rebecca (or Tessa, take your pick). Although I like Hannah very much (she and I share many common character traits, after all), and, from the little I have been able to observe, she appears to make Vic deliriously happy, I find I'm worried that Vic is choosing his romantic partners in a neurotic manner, as if he is looking for Rebecca in other women in order to have a do-over which will end successfully. If I am justified in my concern, well, we all know Einstein's definition of insanity. I can just hear you now telling me to quit my amateur analyzing, and leave psychology to experts such as yourself, which I will happily do upon your return.

I have to break off for now; Angela has a simulation to show me pertaining to our current case: the double homicide of a newly-paired heterosexual couple; main suspect, the vengeful ex-girlfriend. I can't think why Vic keeps throwing anxious glances in my direction…

If you are the true friend you claim to be, you will answer this with despatch! Your old drinking buddy, _Brennan_

 _Dear Brennan_ , While I am overjoyed to have this first sign of life from you in eight months, I must say I find you a cruel prankster. You knew very well I would assume that Dr. Fred Burkle was a man, and that the "hands" you trusted Jay to were not merely metaphorical in nature. If I had not been able to google Dr. _Winifred_ Burkle, I would be suffering the torments of the damned. I warn you: expect payback in kind.

I find your analysis of Vic's possible neurosis ingenious, but I feel the sample size of three attractive blondes too small to draw meaningful conclusions. I do not, however, eliminate the possibility that Vic is neurotic (who among us isn't, to some degree?).

You are exceptionally talented in many areas, Brennan, but lying is not your forte. Your word choice ("clone") gives you away. You do not like Hannah, and, to be frank with you, neither do I. That is imprecise: I don't like Hannah _for Vic_. She is a perfectly acceptable person in her way, but too forward for my particular taste, and certainly not a prospect for a long-term, stable relationship. I could not have made my opposition to Vic's getting involved with her any plainer, and, as you surmised, we had an argument, and did not part friends.

A few days later, Miss Julian's phone call came through. Vic showed up at my office (for lack of a better term) and announced, in that insufferable way of his, that we were leaving, and that I was to get packing, "chop, chop." I asked him if he had broken things off with Hannah, and he tried to blow me off by assuring me that she was staying behind. When I pressed him, he admitted they had no plans to stop seeing each other, at which point I informed him, coldly, that he would be making the trip to D. C. without me. What transpired next will sound familiar to you, Brennan; even as it was happening, I experienced a strong sense of déjà vu.

Vic grabbed me forcibly by the upper arm and began to drag me in the direction of my quarters, telling me there wasn't time for my foolishness, etc. I managed to free myself, and, for the first time in my life (and to my shame), I smashed my fist just under my twin's left eye with all the power of my considerable frustration and anger behind it. I shouted that I hated him, and that I would never work with him again. He was shocked, as you may well imagine: the physical violence, the rage, the vitriol —it was totally out of character for me. It's entirely possible that, in that moment, he looked at me and saw a stranger, or, what is worse, our father. But, I was too enraged to recognize any of that as it happened. I stormed away, and he let me go, shouting, "Who needs you?" (or something along those lines) after me. I have not seen him since.

So, there you have it, Brennan: a synopsis of what led to my not appearing that night on the mall. I regret many things about those events, but none more than missing the opportunity to see you.

I notice that I have neglected to reassure you as to my well-being, so I sign off as: Yours, with few serious health complaints and in mediocre spirits, _Tim_

 _Dear Tim_ , Your email wrung my heart. I had no idea your falling out with Vic was so severe. It explains so much about his recent behavior, which evokes very powerfully, for me at least, Shakespeare's Lady in the Play who "doth protest too much." Vic would be looking at me blankly right now, but you know your Hamlet, I'm sure.

Let me give you some examples: Vic has always been circumspect to the point of secrecy about his romantic entanglements, but now, at the least provocation, he takes out his phone and flashes Hannah's photo, congratulating himself on having secured a lover with her looks and accomplishments. When he and Hannah are out together in public, his displays of affection have all the subtly of a neon billboard: _Look at me, look here! I'm in Love!_ And, when asked recently if he was happy with Hannah, Vic not only waxed eloquent, but went on and on, as if he was trying to convince himself as much as Sweets (who relayed this exchange to me, looking no doubt to provoke a reaction, in which attempt he failed miserably). I particularly appreciated Sweets' characterization of Vic's response as "hysterical prolixity" (the boy does have some potential). Finally, and I apologize in advance for any pain this causes you, very soon after her arrival, Vic insisted Hannah take up residence in your joint apartment. Doesn't that strike you as precipitate? He seems, to me, to be acting out of some kind of desperation, as if he's compelled to have her near.

I may be deluding myself, Tim, and I'm not trained in the mysteries of the human psyche (always assuming that such a thing exists) but I sense that Vic's bright show of happiness is more spectacle than truth: a "pay no attention to the man behind the curtain" type thing (no, don't be surprised: The Wizard of Oz is inescapable in our culture). I'm beginning to think, and I hope I'm wrong, that Vic is in real trouble.

Tim, I can't think of anything I wouldn't do to help Vic, but I don't know _what_ to do. I need your help, sweetie. Vic needs your help. If at all possible, put in for compassionate leave, and come back to us. Yours, always, _Brennan_

 _Dear Brennan,_ You are the sister I never had and always wanted. I would do anything for you. I would die for you. I would kill for you, but I can't intercede in Vic's personal affairs right now. Just know this: I have faith that everything's going to be okay, eventually. Look for me when you least expect it: when you think all is lost and nothing will ever be right again, I will be there for you. I won't let you down. That's a promise from your surrogate brother who loves you, _Tim._


	24. Chapter 24: Cancel all our vows

What He Offere

Chapter 24: Cancel all our vows

Bones thought it "imprecise," as Booth had phrased it, to say she hadn't liked Hannah Burley. She had, in truth, been fascinated by Hannah, much as small animals and birds are reputed to be mesmerized when confronted with a snake — which is not to say that she thought of Hannah as a possibly venomous reptile! Not at all. It was rather that Hannah was a conundrum to her, a puzzle she could not quite solve. To this day, she remained curious about the woman, but only in an academic sense. She did not regret Hannah's having dropped out of their lives, and she doubted Booth did, either.

A Tale of Twin Booths, cont'd

Vic Booth stood in the men's rest room and examined his face in the mirror. Considering the blow his twin had dealt him, it was remarkable his cheek showed no sign of injury: no bruising, no abrasion, no swelling at all. Aspirin had chased the physical pain away but his heart still hurt with every beat; he would not have been at all surprised to learn he had sustained internal bleeding. He picked up his duffel, and returned to the boarding area to await his flight home.

In the midst of the happy crowd of soldiers heading out on leave, Vic sat alone, isolated by grief. His brother, his twin, in many ways his better half had rejected him. What had Tim said? _I don't know you anymore. I hate you. I will never work with you again._ And, why? All because of a woman, a woman who had, now, broken his heart twice over: once, when she'd deserted him, and then, when she'd stolen his brother away. His brother… Vic felt a pang of regret. He acknowledged to himself that he'd treated Tim badly. He didn't really believe that Tim wanted Brennan, not as _he_ did, but Tim had hurt him by aligning himself with her against him, and, in a fit of temper, he'd lashed out. Tim and Brennan were teamed up now, and he was out in the cold. It was two against one, or even three against one, if he counted Jay. Of the four people he loved most in the world, only Parker was still in his camp. Parker… and maybe one more person: Hannah Burley.

Once on the plane, he reclined in his seat, a mask over his eyes, but sleep eluded him. The hours ticked slowly by, filled with few thoughts other than the debacle his life had become. He found himself wondering what if, after all, Tim was right, and he was wrong? It wouldn't be the first time, far from it. What if, when he saw Brennan later by the reflecting pool, she ran to him, threw herself into his arms, and told him how terribly she'd missed him? Would that be evidence enough for him to void his resolution to put the temptation of her behind him once and for all? Or, would he take back his decision, and resume the chase?

It was in this chaotic frame of mind that Vic approached the stairs leading down to the mall. Darkness had fallen, visibility was poor, but then, he spotted her, and it was, incredibly, the airport scene all over again, with him in his camouflage BDU coming down toward her, and she, her travel bag hooked over her shoulder, half-turned looking back for him. His heart thrilled at the welcome sight of her, so long desired, and he broke out in a smile as she hurried toward him, elation dawning on her beautiful face, her arms outstretched. He dropped his duffel unceremoniously, and braced for impact as she threw her arms around him, and hugged him to her as though she'd never let him go again.

When she dropped back on her heels, and grinned up at him, he gave her the chance to make it all right, to say the magic words that would crack the shell he'd regrown around his heart. But, she leaned to one side, and looked past him, craning her neck. "Where's Tim?" she asked, eagerly.

He did not allow his smile to falter. He picked up his duffel, and motioned toward the stairs. "It's Father Tim, now," he told her, striving for a light tone. "You'd hardly recognize him. He's turned into something of a guru, with a devoted flock hanging on every pearl of wisdom that drops from his lips."

Brennan settled down beside him on the cold concrete step, a look of perplexity on her face. "I don't know what that means."

"It means he's fine, and doing great work. The Army can't spare him."

"Oh. Well, I guess that's good." She sounded dubious.

Before she could continue the subject, Vic reached into his breast pocket and removed some recent snapshots. She was immediately diverted, and asked questions about the men and women pictured, the work he'd done, whether he'd been in any danger. Finally, as casually as he was able, he worked in a question of his own. "So… meet anyone special?"

He remembered the guidebook photos of those sinewy, brown-skinned islanders with their handsome features and shiny black hair, and held his breath. "I was working," she said, "So, there was no time _or_ inclination for sex or romance. How about you?"

He warmed to hear that reply, but as proof went, it did not suffice. It wasn't gentlemanly to test her, but he had to know. "Yes," he said. "Yes, I did." He took out his phone, and showed her the picture of Hannah in her pin-up-girl pose. "Hannah Burley."

"Oh!" Brennan's smile faltered, but she managed gamely, "How… how did you two meet?"

Vic related some of the details, all the while watching her reaction closely. When she asked, he told her firmly that, yes, they _were_ serious, serious as a heart attack. Then, he waited, willing her to fight for him, to make a play, to say, _I never expected that. I thought, once we got back, we'd be a real couple. Tell me it really isn't too late for us._ But instead, her lips twitched into the semblance of a smile, and she said, her tone at once brittle and bright, "I find I'm really looking forward to seeing everyone."

And, just like that, he had his answer: Temperance Brennan was his past, Hannah Burley, his present. As to the future? His brother, unofficial man of God, would no doubt have proclaimed: "sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof."

Resolving on a course of action is one thing, Vic discovered, but holding to it when friends and colleagues make no secret of their surprise and incredulity is another. Vic found himself constantly having to swim against the tide of popular opinion, insisting that yes, he was in love, and no, for the last time already, it was _not_ with Brennan. If the Jeffersonian squint squad didn't turn on him out of loyalty to their esteemed leader, as Tim had, it was only because Brennan didn't allow it. She was staunch in denying any personal disappointment, and in maintaining an unqualified support of Vic's new relationship. Vic doubted very much that Cam and Angela would have lent themselves to helping Hannah move into his apartment if Brennan hadn't taken his new girlfriend so publicly under her wing.

As the weeks wore on, the instances of Brennan's generosity to Hannah multiplied. When Hannah sought her counsel on the matter of a house-warming gift for Vic, Brennan might easily have named some gadget or decorative item at random, but instead, she told Hannah about his long-standing desire for a bakelite rotary phone. And, when Hannah took what appeared to be a minor gun shot wound to the leg, Brennan had not needed to review the x-rays or point out a complication Hannah's doctors had missed and which had the potential to result in her death, but she had. He could only guess what it had cost Brennan to stand by and watch Hannah challenge her for favorite-woman-not-my-mother status in Parker's life, but she paid the price unstintingly and with grace. Hell, Brennan even surrendered her favorite pair of designer sunglasses when Hannah brazenly demanded them. All this, and more, Brennan did on Hannah's behalf.

At first, Vic thought Brennan had simply fallen under Hannah's spell: hadn't she volunteered the observation that "everybody loves her?" In time, however, he came to see that Brennan had befriended his lover not for Hannah's sake but for his. By word and action, he had persuaded her that Hannah was his bliss, and so, she made any and all concessions to insure the continuation of that happiness, however much it made her suffer.

Because Brennan _did_ suffer. Vic did not need Tim's sensitivity to perceive Brennan was presenting a brave front to the world. No one knew her tells better than he did. The false cheer in her voice, the inability to hold his eye, the way she angled her jaw out and to the side, these small signs gave her away. This show of hers, which she doubtless thought convincing, was all to spare his feelings, to avoid raining on his gaudy parade. And, he'd renounced this amazing, self-abnegating woman in favor of Hannah Burley! Old Tim had been right, after all, damn him: Temperance Brennan had deserved better from him.

With this realization, the pull that Brennan had never ceased to exert on him increased so powerfully that he feared he would be drawn ineluctably into yet another long and hopeless chase for her affections. She was the siren to his hapless Ulysses, her entrancing song luring his frangible barque onto rocky shoals, but like that ancient Greek traveler, Vic had a mast to which he could bind himself in order to resist her seductive call: he had Hannah. But, holding onto Hannah was not a simple matter either. He had known from the start she was not the staying kind; that had not concerned him then. Now, however, with every hint of dissatisfaction, he panicked, and put himself out to placate her. Was she plagued by ennui? He would cook her a special dinner, with wine and everything. Did she need the excitement of pursuing lurid crime stories? He would not stand in her way. Was she envious of his partnership with Brennan? They would take on that corrupt cop she was investigating together. He would do anything, anything at all, to keep her from leaving him.

Then, one night — it was their sixth month of living together — Hannah came home with a decided twinkle in her eye. "Vic, lover, you'll never guess! I popped in to see Brennan late this afternoon, but I missed her, because…" She paused dramatically. "… she'd just left with her new man."

Vic's pulse began to pound. "Her new… what?"

"I know, right? Brennan with a guy! But, word has it, he's a hottie! I'm so happy for our girl."

"Any… ah, idea who the guy is?"

Hannah stored her gear away, and started off for the kitchen and a glass of wine. "No. He's a man of mystery, apparently. I got a description, though: tall, dark-haired, thick stubble, nice physique."

Vic's heart sank like a torpedoed charter boat. It had to be Sully. He was back.


	25. Chapter 25: Crazy Days

What He Offered

Chapter 25: Crazy days

Bones muffled a laugh: had Booth really been afraid that Sully would come motoring back into her life someday and sweep her away? How could a man be so blind in some regards, and so insightful in others? He'd seen through her fake resignation to his relationship with Hannah, after all, a resignation she'd always thought so flawlessly acted. Vanity, thy name is Temperance! She wondered if his recounting of his feelings for Hannah was entirely true. She would like to think so, obviously, but there was perhaps an element of revisionary history involved. She decided it didn't matter. The important thing was, whatever he had felt for Hannah, over those hellish eight months, Booth had never stopped loving his Bones.

A Tale of Twin Booths, cont'd

Rumors concerning Brennan's new beau abounded. Given the trench coat and the slouch hat he favored when visiting the Jeff, to say nothing of his furtive manner, it was bruited that he was a CIA spook, with a mission to lure Brennan into collaborating with the dark side. Others who glimpsed him in a well-worn bomber jacket and ratty Washington Nationals ball cap pulled down low over his eyes were persuaded he was a local vice cop working undercover among the city's drug lords and crime syndicates. Micah Leggat, the overnight security guard, reported having investigated suspicious noises emanating from the lab, only to discover Dr. Brennan and a tall, bearded individual laughingly engaged in dancing the fox trot. Only one thing was known for sure about the man: he wasn't Tim Sullivan.

One evening, when she and Vic were having coffee together at the Royal Diner, Brennan received a phone call. From the way her features softened and her eyes shone, Vic had little doubt who was on the other end of the line. "Now? What's the address?" Brennan reached for the nearest scrap of paper, which happened to be the check, and scrawled the information. "Okay. See you soon!"

Vic grabbed the check, and pretended to verify the charges. The address she'd written was located in one of the less affluent parts of town. "I'll get this." He began to push away from the table.

Brennan snatched the check back. "No, no, my treat!"

"So…" he said, studiously off-hand. "Who was that on the phone?"

"Just now?" She glanced one more time at her scrawl, then passed the check and a twenty-dollar bill to the hovering waitress. "That was my… ah… brother."

"Russ is in town?"

"Hm? Oh. Ah, sorry, Vic. I've got to run. See you tomorrow!"

He saw her again much sooner than that. He spotted her dark blue Prius parked in front of a low, red-brick structure that looked like nothing so much as run-down office space. As he slowly drove past, he made out the building's purpose: it was a studio offering classes in ballroom dancing. He pulled into a space, but didn't have long to wait. No sooner had he adjusted his rear-view mirror to surveil the front door, than a tall, slender man, garbed entirely in black from the fedora tipped over his nose to his slip-on Italian-leather shoes, exited and crossed the few yards to Brennan's waiting car. Vic followed them all the way back to Brennan's general neighborhood, and then peeled off. He did not need to witness her actually escorting him up to her condo.

Vic knew he had no business begrudging Brennan any dalliance, but it galled him, even so, to picture her doing the horizontal tango with a lowly dance instructor. If he had had the presence of mind to remember that he and Tim had, themselves, while in college earned extra money by teaching ballroom dance, he would have spared himself some unpleasant mental images, for it was none other than his twin who was, at that moment, seated on Brennan's couch listening to the recently-returned Jay recount her adventures in Maluku and environs.

Tim had been in D.C. already a month, and was subletting a studio apartment in the George Washington University area, not far from the Shall We Dance studio where he taught a few nights a week, mostly for kicks. He had been granted an open-ended sabbatical from the FBI, and was not at all anxious to resume his work there. He and Brennan had had plenty of time to catch up on all their news, and now met frequently just for the pleasure of it. They dined out together in out-of-the-way restaurants, attended the occasional lecture, and even went out jogging when weather permitted. He amused himself, and Brennan, by appearing in various outrageous disguises, which included, but were not limited to, fake mustaches and eyebrows, temporary tattoos, nerdy glasses, bottle tans, and one face-shading hat after another. Vic had, so far, not gotten wind of his presence in town, and that's the way he planned to keep it for the nonce.

As for Jay, she had toured Indonesia for several weeks after the expedition had wrapped up in Maluku, and she was now enjoying another few days' rest and recuperation before taking up her job at the Jeff. The year away appeared to have done her good; she had a healthy, golden glow about her, and an air of ease in herself and a certain serenity. She unbent enough to invite Tim to call her Jay again, and left off addressing him cooly as Agent Booth. It was far from the intimacy of their old days, but an improvement over their pre-Maluku interaction.

When Brennan had to step away for a moment to field a phone call, Jay leaned toward him, and said softly, "Thank you, Tim, for looking out for Tempe these last few months. She's going through a rough patch right now."

Tim smiled. "It's no hardship, Jay. I love your sister."

Jay drew back at this declaration, a bit wide-eyed, and Tim, realizing belatedly that his words lent themselves to misinterpretation, was about to add "as a dear friend," when Brennan returned, and the opportunity was lost.

Some weeks later, Brennan phoned Tim with an urgent invitation to join her for lunch at the Royal Diner. "It's all right," she said, when he questioned her choice of restaurant. "Vic's tied up in meetings at headquarters all day."

Despite this reassurance, Tim took no chances, and when he turned up at Brennan's table, she didn't immediately recognize him. He was newly clean-shaven, with rimless glasses perched on his nose and outfitted in a rusty black suit worn over a combination of black crewneck sweater and collarless white shirt, and, to top it all off, a black cappello romano on his head. When Tim made to pull out the chair across from her, Brennan said, "I'm sorry, Father, but that seat…" She broke off with a shout of laughter. "Oh, sweetie! You're too much! Who're you supposed to be this time?"

"Why, myself, of course, dear child."

Still chuckling, Brennan wiped away a tear. "Thank you, Father Tim. I really needed a good laugh."

"Bad day?"

"Two of them, and going on a third. Let's order, and then, I'll fill you in."

When the waitress had come and gone, Brennan slid a case file across the table. "Look at the victim's photo, and tell me what you think."

Tim saw a caucasian woman, mid-thirties, dark-haired, light-eyed with a stern, no-nonsense expression on her face. "Nice looking. Am I supposed to know her?"

"She doesn't remind you of Jay?"

"Jay?" Tim was taken aback at the question. "No! At least, only very generally. Why?"

"This," Brennan said, tapping the photo with her finger, "is Dr. Lauren Eames, an outstanding surgeon who disappeared eleven months ago. Her bio reads very similarly to mine and Jay's: a professional woman in a medical field, never married, without children, perceived as extraordinarily competent but heartless, robotic. A man whose son she treated described her as 'cold as Antarctica,' and even went so far as to suggest she was capable of mass murder, provided it could be rationalized."

"Whoa! That's harsh!"

Brennan smiled bitterly. "Dr. Eames had no social life, no friends. She did, however, have a man in her life." She reached across the table, and laid her hand on Tim's. "A helicopter pilot who loved her desperately, and told her so, only to have his hopes dashed, even though he was fairly certain she returned his feelings. Are you beginning to see?"

He searched his friend's troubled eyes. "You think Jay's identified with the victim."

"She's _over-_ identified, Tim. When she listened to Dr. Eames' recordings, she thought she heard her own voice. I came into the bones room last night and heard her speaking. I assumed she was just musing out loud, but, Tim, she said she was having a _conversation_ with the victim. And, she's being irrational, denying any evidence that indicates a dissimilarity between them: according to Jay, it's impossible that Dr. Eames was a heroine-user, even though there's incontrovertible proof of it."

Just then, Brennan's minestrone and Tim's grilled cheese sandwich were brought to the table, allowing him a few moments to evaluate when he'd been hearing. He didn't like the implications. When they were once again alone, he ventured, "You're afraid she's having a nervous breakdown."

"I don't know what to think!" Brennan cried. She picked up her spoon, and dipped it into her soup, only to move it round and round the bowl absently. "She's not eating, not resting. It could be a simple matter of exhaustion, of sleep deprivation…"

It was Tim's turn to reach out for Brennan's hand. "Stop stirring, and eat, Brennan. You won't do Jay any good by following her example."

She swallowed a spoonful to please him. "But, I'm right to be worried."

"Yes, you're right. Do you know where Jay is now?"

"At the lab. I set her to cataloguing the cranial fractures for me."

"All right. Here's what you're going to do: stick close to her. Don't let her out of your sight, if you can help it. And, if she does anything at all that alarms you, call me immediately. Don't hesitate. I'll drop everything and come running."

Brennan drew in a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. "Thank you, Tim. I can always count on you."

Tim spent the remainder of the afternoon suffering from what he told himself was a case of mere heartburn, but he couldn't fool himself: his nerves were strung as thinly as Brennan's. He was sorely tempted to steal into the Jeffersonian, find a well-shadowed vantage point and observe Jay from a distance as he had on that day he'd first suspected her identity, now so long ago. But, the risk of discovery was too great; he stayed away.

It was nearly midnight, just as he was beginning to consider the gravest danger safely past, that his phone rang: Brennan. "She's gone, Tim! She ran out! I only left the bone room for a minute, I swear!"

"Calm down, Brennan. Are you sure she's not somewhere in the building?"

"Her raincoat's gone. She's on her way to Woodland, Tim, I just know it. She wrote the address, 1255B Franklin Street, on her note pad, hard enough to leave an impression. I'm going after her, but she's got a head start on me, and, Tim, you're so much closer…"

"I'm leaving now, Brennan. Don't worry. I'll find her. I won't let anything bad happen to her. Trust me." He grabbed his car keys and trench coat, and raced out the door, as if a life, Jay's life, depended on it.


	26. Chapter 26: Crisis

What He Offered

Chapter 26: Crisis

It could not possibly be a coincidence, Bones thought in annoyance, that her phone pinged just when she least wanted an interruption. Incoming message from Booth: _at the Thai Won Non. Take-out Tofu Curry or Peanut Noodles?_

Her stomach growled. In her absorption, she'd missed her afternoon tea. No wonder she was famished. _Both_ , she texted. _Bon appétit._

 _See you in sixty._

Sixty…? Oh, minutes. Just an hour more? She quickly returned to the screen.

A Tale of Twin Booths, cont'd

Brennan had been right: for reasons known only to herself, Jay had taken a taxi to Franklin Street, and was standing in the pouring rain, looking from the half-sheet of paper in her hand to the apartment building across from her. Tim, who had just turned the corner onto that stretch of the road, slipped into the shadow thrown by the building and watched her carefully, poised to intervene but only if absolutely necessary: she had come to this unsavory neighborhood for a purpose, and, provided pursuing it did not endanger her, he would not interfere.

Her attention suddenly caught by something in the center of the street, Jay moved to crouch down beside it: a bright gold reflective pavement marker. She ran her hand over its surface with all the narrow focus and intensity she usually reserved for bone, and was so engrossed in her examination, she was taken completely unaware by the car speeding round the corner toward her. The driver mashed the brakes, too late: the roadway was wet, the car couldn't stop, it fish-tailed but still would have crushed her, but for Tim who, the moment the car came into view, had run into the road. He snatched her up and dragged her out of harm's way, while the driver, having regained control of his vehicle, leaned angrily on his car horn, and sped away into the night.

From behind the rat-tail curtain of her dripping hair, Jay stared at him. "What… what are you doing here?"

Tim gripped her upper arms tightly, torn between rage at her recklessness and relief at her narrow escape. Relief won out. "Following you to a bad part of town to save your life, what else?"

She babbled something about having solved the mystery of the Eames' murder, but he could barely hear her above the rapid pounding of his heart. His only cogent thought was to get her out of the drenching rain before she caught her death. He made soothing noises: yes, yes, he believed her, Dr. Eames' death was an accident, it didn't matter that Jay couldn't prove it. All the while, an arm around her shoulder, he half-led, half-propelled her to his rental car.

Once inside, with Jay safely belted into the passenger seat, he spared a moment to phone Brennan. "I have her… Yes, she's fine. She says to tell you she solved the case… All right… Don't be ridiculous… Okay, later… You, too."

He started the car, and pulled out on the deserted road. Beside him, Jay shivered with cold and, no doubt, reaction as well; he turned on the heater, and when the air had warmed sufficiently, set the control on high and angled the vents to blow in her direction.

They had gone some little distance in silence, when Jay twisted in her seat and looked at him, uncertainly at first and then, with growing resolution. "I… I made a mistake — not about the case," she added, hurriedly. "It was the same mistake she made. Dr. Eames, I mean."

"What mistake was that?"

"She had someone in her life who loved her. A helicopter pilot. He saved her life one night, just as you saved mine tonight."

"What, did she have a habit of kneeling in front of oncoming traffic?"

"No." If she suspected he was teasing her, she gave no sign. "One time, she leaned out the open helicopter door, as if daring him to tip her out. He didn't, of course. He tipped her back in."

"That was the responsible thing to do," Tim said, neutrally.

"It wasn't _that._ He loved her. He offered himself to her, and she never gave him a chance." There was the throb of rising tears in her voice, a pleading look in her eyes. "That was her regret, Tim."

Perhaps she'd been right all those months ago, Tim thought despondently, seeing the despair writ large on her features: she couldn't change. She would always turn to him in sorrow; never in love, always in need: her weeping post. He tried to diffuse the situation. "Everybody has regrets, Jay."

"She _died_ with her regrets, Tim. Dr. Eames and I, we're not the same person, I know that now, but her life has been a wake-up call for me, a signal from the universe. I don't want to have any regrets." She fixed him with a long, beseeching look, begging him to make the unspoken connections, to understand what she couldn't ask in so many words.

Those gentian-blue eyes… Tim loved her, he suspected he would always love her, and the urge to pull the car over to the side of the road and enfold her in his arms was almost too powerful to resist. His bleeding heart longed to tuck her head against his shoulder and take on all the grief she felt for the tragic Dr. Eames, her lovelorn pilot, and Jay herself. But, if he relented, if he succumbed, what then? Would they be a couple? Would she love him for the next thirty, forty, fifty years, or would he be relegated again to the thankless role of comforter, consolation-provider, human snot rag? Was she finally ready, finally strong enough to commit to a real-world relationship? He didn't know, and couldn't risk finding out. He had long practice sparing the feelings of others with a soothing lie; now, to protect himself, he would take refuge in one. "I'm with someone, Jay. I love her. She's not a consolation prize."

He braced himself for shock, even incredulity, but, unaccountably, Jay simply nodded. He'd expected her to ask for at least a name, if not other details, but she sat gazing through the windshield, the first tears streaming down her face. He looked away, picturing himself wearing blinkers, and concentrated on the road. "You and Tempe," she said at last. "I understand."

And now, so did he: that blasted unvarnished _I love your sister_ he'd never found occasion to clarify. Jay had obviously misconstrued the affection Tim and Brennan felt for each other as something more, but under the present circumstances, it was perhaps a blessing in disguise. He did not disabuse her.

"I… I missed my chance," he heard her say. Her head fell forward, and she began to cry in full earnest, an awful sobbing that tore at Tim savagely. The sound was very far from musical, but it was as compelling as any siren song to him, and he had to imagine his ears, like those of Ulysses' hapless crewmen, stuffed full of wax and so, rendered deaf to the wrenching call. His hands grew white-knuckled on the wheel, and his teeth ached from his jaw being clamped so hard. When she calmed somewhat, he said, "The last thing I want is to hurt you…"

She wiped at her cheeks with shaking fingers, and nodded. Tim thought of the crisp linen handkerchief in his pocket, but made no move to retrieve it. "I can adjust," she assured him.

"I did." Two words that might have been either reproach or encouragement. Tim himself didn't know which he'd meant; maybe both.

She rested her head against the seat back, and stared out at the road. "Yes, you did."

When she said no more, he hazarded a quick glance at her. She seemed to have withdrawn into a world of quiet desolation. He was suddenly afraid for her. "Do you want me to call someone to be with you?"

She closed her eyes, retreating into herself. "No. I'm fine alone."

They drove the rest of the way in silence. He risked the occasional peek at her, and saw that, exhausted from lack of sleep and surfeit of emotion, she had dozed off, or at least, was giving a creditable impression on having done so. When he pulled up to her building, Brennan was waiting outside, sheltering under the main door's awning. As there were no spaces available curbside, Tim double-parked and would have gotten out, leaving the car running, but Brennan, helping her sister from the passenger seat, waved him off. "I can take it from here," she told him. "Thank you, Tim. Now, go. I'll call you tomorrow."

As he lay on his lumpy bed that night, tossing and turning, Jay's tearful admission and his discouraging response playing in an endless feedback loop in his mind, Tim found himself wondering if Brennan would indeed phone him once she learned what had transpired between him and Jay on the drive back from Woodland. But Brennan was, as ever, nothing but fair. "I blame the Lauren Eames case," she said, when she rang him the next day. "It unbalanced Jay. She wasn't herself. You were right not to indulge her hysteria."

Not only was she fair, but overly-generous, too. "So, how is Jay this morning?"

"She's sad. What's that expression? Sadder but wiser."

"And, that's so much better than dead, or even dead inside," Tim allowed.

Except when it wasn't, as Vic was to discover very soon.


	27. Chapter 27: Crushed

What He Offered

Chapter 27: Crushed

Well, Bones reflected, the false Tim / Tempe relationship was bound to happen; for narrative purposes, it was necessary to balance the false Vic / Jay relationship previously posited. The question was: apart from establishing a pleasing structural symmetry, did this latest wrinkle have any meaning? She knew she really shouldn't squander precious time on the matter, but she always had difficulty resisting a good puzzle. She eventually decided that Booth meant the following: even if he had not been committed to Hannah on that crazy night, he would not have agreed to give the two of them a chance. He had finally seen the truth of her declaration that he needed, not to protect _her_ , but to protect _himself_ from her, at least until she was strong enough to love him as he deserved. Yes, she thought, satisfied, that was the answer. She returned to the screen.

A Tale of Twin Booths, cont'd

Eight months into his living arrangement with Hannah, Vic still had only a divided heart to offer her. He loved her, as how could he not? She was vivacious, provocative, lusty, dynamic and endlessly inventive between the sheets. If he had wanted nothing more than a fun-loving playmate as a life companion, she would have fit the bill exactly. The problem was, he wanted more than mere excitement, more than thrills and good times, however spectacular; he wanted a woman with staying-power, with unsounded depths of feeling and an unselfish soul, a woman to whom he could entrust his heart in perfect security. Hannah Burley was not that woman.

Temperance Brennan was the complete package — beautiful and brainy, engaging and kindhearted — but he had missed the boat there; he'd let her get away. But, not _clean_ away, perhaps… While she was, by all accounts, still involved with her mystery suitor, Vic was encouraged by the very fact that he remained a mystery: if she was serious about him, he reasoned, she would certainly have introduced him to her friends and colleagues by now. Her faceless dancing-master extraordinaire might be only the latest passing fancy in a long line of such men. Vic thought he might stand a chance with Brennan yet.

And so it went: two beloved women, and Vic in the middle, pulled now in one direction, now in the other. Hannah was his, for the moment, with no guarantee of a future; Brennan was another man's, but maybe only temporarily, and his, forever, if she would only allow herself to be caught. The tension was irresolvable, a source of constant stress.

In the past, when Vic had needed guidance, he'd sought out Gordon Gordon Wyatt, but the chef's popularity had reached such heights that he hardly had a moment for himself, never mind for former advisees. In addition to running his successful gourmet restaurant, he had been prevailed upon to present a cooking show on the local public access channel. Half-pastiche, half-homage to Julia Child, the thirty-minute program entitled "The English Chef" had attracted such a large and faithful following that there was talk of its being picked up by one of the large networks. Gordon Gordon, with his urbanity, posh British accent, and entrancing patter, was on the verge of becoming a media star, and his sign-off message of "may you be born aloft on the trembling wings of giggling angels," a household phrase.

Vic had often gone to his twin for advice as well, but Tim had, for all intents and purposes, dropped off the face of the earth. He had left the Army, of that Vic was certain, but where he had gone after Afghanistan and what he was currently up to, Vic had not the least clue. It infuriated him that Tim communicated regularly with Brennan, but ignored all the email Vic sent him. Not only that, but he had, apparently, changed his phone number as well. Brennan was considerate enough to assure him that Tim was doing fine, but when pressed for more, she would only say she was not at liberty to enlarge on that intelligence. As for Jay, she had informed him once that she couldn't "be of assistance on that matter, Agent Booth," and he had not asked again.

With his first and second choices unavailable to him, Vic was reduced to consulting now and again with Baby Shrink, aka Dr. Sweets. Vic had routinely disparaged his counsel before, but Sweets was all he now had, and so he gave him a listen when needed, and reserved judgment on his pronouncements. It was on this account that Vic found himself on a bar stool next to Sweets at the Founding Fathers one evening, both of them better than half-way down the path to inebriation. His twenty-four-year-old colleague had been drunkenly declaring his undying love for the irritating Daisy Wick for some time, with the result that, finally, he had talked himself into proposing to her. "I don't want to be your age and wind up like you, never married," Sweets said, tactless with drink.

Vic couldn't believe his ears: Sweets was implying his FBI superior was old, unenviable, and without prospects. He could hear the suave Gordon Gordon in his mind: _the inestimable Dr. Sweets is in his cups, and thus to be disregarded entirely._ Vic, however, was stung, and, as was his sorry habit, reacted impulsively. "Yeah, well, I'm going to ask Hannah to marry me. I've been planning it for a while now."

Had Tim been present, he would have called Vic on his crap immediately: _Since when is a "while" less than five seconds?_ Sweets, in contrast, was ebullient in his enthusiasm, clapping Vic on the back, and congratulating him loudly. At that moment, Vic remembered it was Sweets' goading that had prompted Tim's catastrophic decision to offer himself to Jay, and he was beset with serious second thoughts. He cautioned Sweets, "Keep it to yourself for now. I don't want to hear everyone's opinion."

Vic could easily anticipate what the general view of a marriage proposal to Hannah would be: he was an imbecile, asking for trouble, looking to rock a perfectly stable boat, and go down with the ship, all of which were very likely valid assessments. Hannah had made no secret of her opposition to marriage, not as an institution but for herself. She gave every indication of loving him, but none of wanting to settle down. _You will pardon me,_ Gordon Gordon drawled in that Oxbridge don manner of his, _if I find it extremely curious that you are resolved upon a course of action which you foresee, from the outset, will end in total_ _disaster._ _It rather puts me in mind of what military men call "a_ _forlorn hope._ _" As a soldier yourself, you_ _'_ _ll no doubt be familiar with the concept._ Vic closed his eyes, put metaphorical fingers in his ears, and repeated his mantra of _faint heart never won fair lady_ until Gordon Gordon finally got the message, and decamped from his mind.

When it came to purchasing the engagement ring, Vic cast a cursory glance over the jeweler's selection with an eye to picking out not the stone and setting he thought would most appeal to Hannah, but the biggest, showiest diamond in the tray. _Brilliant strategy,_ Tim sneered. _Dazzle her with this monstrosity of a sparkler, and maybe she'll be so impressed by its excess, she'll overlook the fact that you are showing no respect for her frequently-stated feelings. Nothing, after all, says 'I'm desperate for you to accept me' better than the largest, most expensive ring in the case._ Vic tuned out his snarky brother, and listened instead to the admiring saleswoman who gazed at him in unalloyed approbation, and called him "a wonderful man."

The evening of his proposal, Vic was first to arrive at the rendezvous at the foot of the Lincoln Memorial. By dint of having been obliged, repeatedly, to defend his position against the dissenting voices of Tim and Gordon Gordon whispering non-stop in his head, he had practically convinced himself that he had a very good shot of hearing Hannah say the word "yes." He was prey to a delicious excitement, walking the tight rope between success and failure, both, to his mind, equally possible. He had never understood his twin's gambling addiction before, but now, as his gut trembled and his heart raced in anticipation, he appreciated just how thrilling a wager could be. All or nothing: his hand closed on the jeweler's box in his pocket, and he breathed in the night air, feeling at his most alive in some time.

"Hey, soldier!" He turned to see Hannah strutting toward him, confident in her beauty, in her desirability. "Looking for a good time?" Her smile was both teasing and impudent: siren as sexpot.

The last time Vic had been so nervous with a woman, he'd been a callow teen. He tried to recall the debonair speech he'd worked out, but the carefully-prepared words had all fled. He had to fall back on tentative, disjointed phrases. "Hannah, I wanted… I meant to wait… it's maybe too soon…" He was so entangled in his clumsy proposal he didn't notice the smile beginning to fade from her face. He brought out the jeweler's box, and tipped back the lid, revealing the magnificent gemstone inside. "Hannah, I love you. Marry me. Be my wife."

The twinkle in Hannah's lovely eyes dimmed with tears, and the rosy glow faded from her cheeks. "Oh, Seeley," she said, in genuine sorrow. "I love you, I really do, but I… can't. I'm not the marrying kind."

 _This is the outcome you predicted, after all. You can hardly be surprised_ , Gordon Gordon admonished gently. _You're the one to blame in all this,_ Tim joined in. _Don't make her out to be the bad guy. She was always upfront with you._ Vic turned away from the desolation in her face, and, leaning against the baluster, stared, stone-faced, out over the water, focused on concealing all signs of the heartache and devastation he felt. Hannah came to stand beside him, apologized, pleaded to start the evening over, asked what the future held for them, and at last, understood what his complete withdrawal signified. It was only when she volunteered to remove her belongings from his apartment that he acknowledged her. "How long do you need?"

She was reluctant to leave him, thinking perhaps he would relent, but in this, she was mistaken: the moment she walked away, Vic relegated her to the past. She was a nomad at heart, a perpetual flight risk; Vic had known from the start she was not a serious candidate for happily-even-after. He did not hold her restlessness against her. What he could not forgive was her counter-proposal: turn back the clock, replay the evening from her opening line, pretend the proposal had never happened. How could she? How could she be so insensitive, so selfish as to suggest such a thing, and moreover, what was the point? Did she imagine he would continue to play house with her after she'd rejected him? In a fit of temper and disgust, he took a firm grip on the jeweler's box that contained the glittery symbol of a future life with Hannah, and threw it as far away from himself as his strength permitted.

He then stuffed his fists in his pants' pockets, and set out for the Founding Fathers and what consolation many tumblers of Scotch could supply.


	28. Chapter 28: Company

What He Offered

Chapter 28: Company

As Bones and Booth had never again spoken of Hannah, much of what she'd read was news to her: the size and expense of the ring, the site of the proposal, Hannah's counter-proposal, the tossing of the jeweler's box and its ill-fated contents into the reflecting pool. What an awful waste that was! Had she been moved to dispose of the beef jerky she'd brought along when she proposed to Booth, it would, at least, have been biodegradable!

She was shocked, too, at Hannah's suggestion that they simply put the rejection behind them and go on as before, but, was it really so different than her asking that they remain professional partners after she'd turned Booth down outside the Hoover? Did his agreeing to continue working with her but refusing to keep living with Hannah mean that, of the two of them, he'd loved her more? She chose to think so.

A Tale of Twin Booths, cont'd

Vic sat alone at the bar, nursing his Scotch and his sense of the ill-usage he had suffered at the hands of the women in his life. The bartender had his instructions to keep the shots coming, and he drank them down one after the other, angrily saluting first the mother who'd deserted him, second, his baby-mama, third, his will-o'-the-wisp partner, and, lastly, the flighty live-in lover who was, even now, clearing out of her most recent pied-à-terre. While She-would-no-longer-be-named would not require a great deal of time for the purpose, he planned to allow her far more than enough: he would remain fixed at the bar until either it closed, or he was thrown out, whichever came first.

When the woman stopped at his elbow, he felt a jolt of rage, thinking it might be… the journalist… come in a last ditch effort to plead her case, but it was Brennan. If he hadn't been so plastered, he would have recognized her fragrance: a clean, spicy scent, redolent of vanilla with just a hint of cinnamon.

"Are you drunk?" she asked. She settled gingerly on the next stool over, as if expecting, at any moment, to be forced into flight.

And, she was right to be wary, Vic acknowledged darkly: he was as sore as a grizzly with a huge thorn in his paw, and feeling twice as mean. He refused to look at her. "Drunker'n usual, yeah, but not a drunk."

"Hannah called me."

Another flare of choler shot through him, but he managed to tamp it down. "I don't want to talk about that. I'm over it. I'm done. Okay?"

She had a good enough sense of self-preservation to give him time to collect himself, but not enough to hold her peace altogether. "So, what happens now?"

He huffed with bitter laughter. The effrontery of her! But, wasn't that Brennan all over? So ballsy, whether intentionally or out of cluelessness, it was hard to tell. Did she honestly think the minute he was unattached, she could dump her toy boy, and they could take up where they left off? He shook his head, incredulous. "You and me," he told her, making no effort to temper the hard edge in his voice, "we're partners. We're the good guys, we take down the bad guys. That's what we do, and I love that, I think that's great. So, here's what happens now."

He turned his head and looked at her for the first time that evening. Her eyes, so blue, perennially enchanting, were wide with anxiety, her face drawn with concern. He hardened his heart, and continued, "You stay here, partner, and you have a drink with me. Maybe we share some small talk, some chit chat… or, you can leave. There's the door, and tomorrow, I'll find you a new FBI guy." He addressed himself single-mindedly to his Scotch; no way was he going to let her see the tears pricking at his eyes.

He could not see her sadness, but it was there in her voice. "Are those my only choices?"

"Those are your only choices," he confirmed.

Had he imagined she would agree to stay with alacrity? If so, he had misjudged her. She kept him waiting so long, he had to entertain the real possibility of her sliding off her stool and heading toward the exit, leaving him behind as his mother, and Rebecca and… the reporter… had done. Women leave, he had just time to think before she said, resignedly, "Then, I'll have a drink," and his world, for that instant, became less bleak.

Except for the occasional remark, or exchange with the bartender, they drank in silence; Brennan did not try to keep pace with him, and Vic was rapidly far more intoxicated than she. When closing time was nearly upon them, Brennan reached for her phone.

"Who're you calling? A cab?" Vic asked, unable to enunciate as clearly as he'd like. "You don't have your car?"

Brennan ignored the question, and tapped out a quick text message. "In case you haven't noticed, you're in no shape to walk any distance unaided."

Vic indicated the barkeep. "Brad, here, can lend me a shoulder as far as your Prius."

"Brad has better things to do. And, besides, who's going to help you up two fights of stairs to your apartment? I'm not a hundred pound weakling, but I'm not up to your weight, either."

Vic propped his elbows on the counter, and supported his spinning head with both hands. "Call Sweets, then," he grumbled. "This mess is mostly his fault."

"Ah! I should have guessed. Sweets may well be a prodigy, Vic, but he's got his own agenda, and can't be trusted."

"Not even to hold me up while I climb a few stairs?"

"Not even then. And anyway, he's probably been tucked up in his bed for hours, like a good boy."

"With that annoying Daisy Wick. So, who'd you…?" A terrible suspicion caused Vic to straighten up in outrage. "You didn't, Brennan! Seriously? The dance instructor?"

Brennan narrowed her eyes at him. "You've been listening to rumors, I see. I wonder: why didn't you go with CIA operative, or undercover D.C. cop? Those are the most prevalent guesses."

"Because I…" He was thoroughly smashed, but native cunning saved him from admitting he'd followed her that one evening. "Never mind why. Are you denying he's a dance teacher?"

"No, why should I? But, as it happens, that only scratches the surface. He's a well-educated man, with an MA and ABD in psychology…"

"An ABD? What's that?"

"It stands for 'all but dissertation.' He'll have his PhD before long. He's also served — with distinction — in the armed forces, not once but twice. He's a highly-respectable professional in a public-service career. Shall I go on?"

"No, I get the picture: he's a paradox of manly virtues…"

"Paragon. A _paragon_ of manly virtues."

Vic threw up his hands in exasperation. "Why do you always have to correct me!"

"In the eternal hope of helping you evolve," she said tightly.

"Yeah, right. So… getting back to you and what's-his-name…" He paused, but Brennan did not oblige him by filling in the blank. "If he's so perfect, how come the two of you are sneaking around? He got some flaw, Brennan? Something to hide?"

She drew herself up on her stool, and lifting her chin, favored him with her most forbidding look. "Not at all. He's a very private person. We both are."

"What, you don't like it when the tables are turned? You're the only one who gets to poke her nose into other people's sex lives?" Vic regarded her closely, saw her stiffness and the prim set of her lips. She was so uptight… "Oh-ho! I see what it is: there _is_ no sex life. What, is he gay, Brennan, or just a pantywaist?"

Brennan's breathing quickened, nostrils flaring. "You're either too drunk to know what you're saying, or you're being deliberately offensive. If this is your way of trying to pick a fight, you can just save your breath. I will _not_ indulge you."

"All right, have it your way. Just answer me one last question. No beating round the bush, straight-up: do you love this guy?"

"Yes," she said, defiantly. "Very much." And then, doubtless because Brennan could not abide dishonesty, she added with much less vehemence, "Like a brother."

He vaguely remembered she had said something about a brother that day at the diner, too. Then, as now, it made no sense. "Russ is your brother."

"I don't need you to tell me who Russ is," she snapped. "I said: _like_ a brother."

"So… what, then? The two of you are just… friends with no benefits?"

She opened her mouth, to ream him out he suspected, but a movement by the entrance caught her eye, and the expression on her face transformed in a wink from irritation to relief. "Oh, thank heaven," she muttered. Vic swiveled on his stool, too late; the man was passing behind him and then, when he swung back, he was standing, his back to Vic, between him and Brennan. "There you are!" she said, gratefully. "What in the world took you so long?"

Once again, the guy was dressed like darkness walking, this time in a voluminous black duster, black jeans and cowboy boots. He sported a black Stetson with a rawhide band over his dark hair, and a black and white bandana tied round his neck. Who did the poseur think he was, Johnny Cash? "I stopped by the apartment, just to check."

"And?"

"The coast is clear."

Vic did not like what he was able to make of this exchange: much too chummy. They sounded like co-conspirators. He slapped the interloper on the upper arm with the back of his hand, not hard, just enough to get his attention. "Hey, buddy!"

"I can take it from here," Vic heard the stranger say. That voice… He must be going as bonkers as Jay: it sounded like his own. "Thanks for holding the fort, Brennan. Now, go. I'll call you tomorrow."

"If you're sure…" When he nodded and stepped back, she made to slip off the stool.

Vic was incensed. "Oh, no! Hell, no! Stop right there, Brennan! You are _not_ going to leave me alone with a guy I don't know from Adam."

"You'll be in good hands," she said. "Don't worry." She stood, placed a few bills on the counter, then risked clapping him once, gently, on the shoulder. "I wouldn't want to be you tomorrow morning, partner."

"Yeah? Well, I don't want to me _right now_ , so there." Brennan merely smiled thinly and headed toward the door.

Her friend took the seat she'd just vacated, and motioned to the bartender. "A quick one for the road, but no more for my pal here." He doffed his Stetson, and, twisting to the side, set it on an empty stool.

"Oh, yeah?" Vic spat angrily. "Who are you to…?" The man turned to him, then, and Vic had his answer. His hair was nearly black and overlong, and his sideburns could stand to be trimmed, but the face was the one Vic saw in the mirror every day of his life. "My God," he breathed, astonished. "Tim! Is it really you?" He grabbed his twin's forearm where it rested on the counter, afraid he might be hallucinating.

"Never doubt it, bro. I got a signal from the universe, saying you needed me. So, here I am."

"But… I don't understand. All this time, it was _you_ on the town with Brennan? And, she loves you…"

"Like a brother," Tim said, with a nod. He drank down his shot in one go, and set the glass back on the counter.

"But… you're _not_ her brother. You're mine, Tim. _My_ twin. _I'm_ your brother."

"I know who you are, Vic. I know. C'mon." Tim helped Vic off his stool, held him steady while he found his feet, and then slipped his shoulder under his brother's. "Let's you and me go home, bro, where we belong: together."


	29. Chapter 29: Contrition

What He Offered

Chapter 29: Contrition

Bones had a decision to make: in fifteen minutes or so, the Zoo Brigade would be coming through the front door, and she would have to abandon her reading for who knew how long. She had the urge to phone Marianne, and ask for a return favor: would she take on the evening rituals of bathing and story time so Bones could escape to her office to finish up an important document? The temptation was strong, but she thought of Christine, who would be bursting with impressions and incidents to share with her, and little Hank, who would, doubtless, be seriously overtired by now and want the familiar comfort only his mother could provide. The story, or her children? Put in those terms, there was really no contest. She had missed her darlings, she was anxious to see them, she would be happy to hug their little bodies to her and smell the outdoors on their skin.

She would read as much as possible in the next quarter hour, and then, as the tale often counseled, she would possess her soul in patience until the next opportunity.

A Tale of Twin Booths, cont'd

In those initial moments of his reunion with Tim, Vic felt nothing but joy in his brother's company, and gratitude for his support, both physical and moral. Tim was wise enough, however, not to expect this unconditional embrace of his prodigal self to persist past the return of sobriety and the onset of a massive hangover, and his expectations were not disappointed. If Vic was sore at the women in his life, when he woke the next morning, he was doubly so with his twin. There followed a period of sulks, recriminations, snide remarks and dark looks, but Tim weathered the storm with the stoicism gained from long experience with Vic's volatile temper, and humbly, in the recognition that Vic was not entirely unjustified in his feelings of having been betrayed and abandoned. Gradually, Vic's animus spent itself, and, with Tim's reinstatement at the FBI, the brothers' relationship reverted to the easy fellowship and trust of their pre-estrangement days.

With the departure of… the foreign correspondent, it was as if, yet again, Fate had pushed the reset button. The Booths and Brennan, with more and more frequently the participation of Jay Keenan, worked their cases in professional harmony while experiencing a certain uneasiness in their personal relations. There was, nonetheless, this one notable difference from previous resets: if put on the spot, each of the four principles would admit to a cautious optimism. They all felt, if only obscurely, that this time around, the rosy future which psychic Avalon Harmonia had once foretold — "this all works out eventually" — might actually come to pass.

This optimism likely arose from the fact that, for the first time in their long association, neither Vic nor Tim, Brennan nor Jay worked under a fundamental misapprehension. The latest of these — that Tim and Brennan were romantically involved — had been thoroughly dispelled; once Jay had recovered from her temporary insanity, Brennan had taken her sister aside and explained both how Jay's insecurities had led her to misread Tim's behavior, and why (to her mind, at least) Tim had lied to her on that crazy night. Once that issue had been resolved, it was clear to all concerned where matters stood.

Hair freshly trimmed, and disguises packed away in favor of his old stand-by conservative suits, white shirts and occasional colorful tie, Tim took up his work as profiler and company shrink with the new energy and dedication born of a long and rejuvenating sabbatical. In his professional capacity, he often crossed paths with Jay, and, in spite of a lingering wariness, kept his interpersonal antennae tuned for any "dim and staticky" signals regarding her which the universe might deem fit to broadcast his way. He received an entire series of such signals (or, the same signal often repeated) on Valentine's Day (no less), when Jay fielded invitation after invitation, only to refuse each out of hand. "Dates on Valentine's Day," she explained, "come with an expectation of affection and sex," neither of which she had the least inclination of supplying.

Tim was further encouraged by an exchange he and Jay had one evening as they sat over drinks at the Founding Fathers discussing the polygamous marriage that had featured prominently in a recent case. The investigation had revealed the curious fact that, while the husband dutifully devoted two nights a week to each of his three "wives," he had chosen to spend his "free night" with his legal spouse. "You can love a lot of people in this world," Tim had told Jay, "but there's only one you love the most."

Jay had looked at him with a combination of earnestness and anxiety. "What if you let that person get away?"

He had answered straight from the heart, without second-guessing himself, "That person's not going anywhere."

With the advent of March, Tim began, if not precisely to court Jay, at least to seek her out socially. He would "coincidentally" be out jogging at the same time and place as Jay, and take advantage of this "accident" to buy her coffee. If she mentioned in passing a lecture she was planning to attend, he would feign interest in the topic and invite himself along. One evening at the Royal Diner when she idly wished her dance moves were not limited to swaying more or less in time to the music, he offered to teach her one or two standard dances — without charge.

Another time, when they were out running together in the park, Tim challenged Jay to a footrace. She agreed but only on the condition that the winner be allowed to set the forfeit of his or her choice. "If I beat you," she said, "you have to sing karaoke for me — in public — one night next week."

"And, if I win, you have to go bowling with me, same time frame."

With his gambling history, he ought to have known better that to make that wager. To Jay's vast amusement, he wound up torturing the audience at the karaoke bar with his stumbling, off-key version of "Mandy," the girl who came and who gave without taking. If there had been rotten fruit immediately to hand, he would have been pelted to within an inch of his life.

As for his brother, for all he was still peeved at Brennan for colluding with Tim against him, Vic was also on the qui vive for encouraging clues and signals coming from that direction. The first positive sign occurred at the end of a long Valentine's Day he'd been obliged to spend dealing with unsolicited sympathy and downright nosiness. While discussing with Brennan their mutual lack of plans, he'd let drop that he'd likely repair to the firing range for the evening, hoping she would take the hint and join him, but Brennan, that glorious girl, went him one better: she showed up with vintage tommy guns so they could commemorate together, not the lovers' holiday, but the Valentine's Day Massacre. As thoughtful gifts went, hers to him was unparalleled.

Other heartening indicators followed; he especially cherished the evening when, in responding to his concern that she considered him no better than the rogue sniper Brodsky, she stated unequivocally, "I'm standing right beside you. Like always. Like I always will."

Vic believed her… and he didn't. His insecurities as far as women were concerned ran too deep; he'd been hurt too often and too recently to trust again with ease. Unsure in himself, he was not above putting Brennan's loyalty to the test, and behaved particularly badly when Walter Sherman, whose finding powers they had flown to Florida expressly to enlist, asked Brennan, point blank, if she'd sleep with him. "You know," he jumped in, not giving his partner the chance to answer for herself. "You find the map, maybe you get a shot." He was fortunate Brennan only smacked him in the arm. He deserved much worse.

Midway through March, on a Wednesday, Tim came home with a smudge of ashes on his brow, and discovered that Vic had added to their living room furniture. "Stadium seats? From the Vet?" he asked, in astonishment. "Where did those babies come from?"

Vic ran a loving hand over a royal blue plastic seat back. "I spotted them curbside, left out for trash collection. Brennan and Sweets helped me get 'em up here."

Tim whistled his admiration. "Couldn't've been easy."

"Yeah, tell me about it!" Vic gestured to the mark on his twin's forehead. "You made it to church in spite of the blizzard raging out there?"

"What can I say? Once an altar boy, always an altar boy." Tim settled in one of the seats, and gauged it for comfort. Catching the lingering trace of smoke in the air, he wrinkled his nose. "Smells to me like you tried to make your own ashes in here. What'd you burn?"

"Scraps of paper with dates on 'em." Noting Tim's frown, he continued, "You remember, when we were kids? We'd write down a date when we hoped something we wanted would happen, and then set it on fire to make it come true? Brennan and I did that, this afternoon."

"Brennan?" Tim had to laugh; it sounded so unlike her. "So, what future event were you hoping to predict with those paper sacrifices of yours?"

"Us… ah… getting together. As a… y'know… couple."

Tim could scarcely believe his ears. "Seriously? No fooling?"

"Swear on a stack of bibles," Vic said, raising his hand as if to take an oath.

"Man, oh, man!" Tim was so excited, he couldn't stay seated. He jumped up and began pacing up and down the room. "What date did she write? No, don't deny you snuck a peek! I know you."

"Couldn't make it out," Vic admitted. "She was too quick for me."

"All right, how about you? What date did you write?"

Vic reared back, offended. "If I tell you, it won't come true. Those're the rules."

"How about I guess, and you tell me right or wrong? That work?"

"I don't see why not… Okay, shoot."

"If it was me, I would have chosen… our birthday! That'd make one sweet present."

"Sooner."

"Feeling your oats, eh? All right… How about the Fourth of July? Talk about fireworks!"

Vic made rolling motions with his hand.

"Whoa, son, those're some serious stones. Not Memorial Day… Mother's Day, no, too ookey…"

"Think 'catholic,' altar boy," Vic hinted.

Tim studied his twin carefully, and then, his jaw went slack. "Easter, Vic? Really? But, that's only forty days away!"

Vic shrugged. "It just seems right, you know, symbolic: death to an old, out-dated pattern, and rebirth into a new and better one. The promise of Spring after a long, hard Winter. A very, very long Winter," he added, under his breath.

"Wow! No offense, Vic, but that's unusually thoughtful for you."

"Yeah? Well, I was an altar boy, too, remember, and better at it than you. Father Donovan always asked for me first."

"We'll agree to disagree on that one. So…" Tim dropped onto the edge of the recliner, and looked Vic square in the eye. "Does this mean you're done being angry? You forgive Brennan all her real and imagined transgressions against you?"

Vic nodded. "As I hope to be forgiven in turn. I'm done fighting it,Tim. I've known from the start: she's the one. I thought I could settle for second best, but I was only kidding myself. You were right, and since it's officially Lent now, I guess, in the spirit of the season, I'll ask you to forgive me for not listening to your sound advice. I've learned my lesson the hard way, and it's this: it's Brennan for me, or no one. I'd rather never be with a woman again, than be with someone else."

"Whoa! That's…" Tim was at a loss for words. "That's… the longest speech I've ever heard you make."

"Yeah, well, when it comes to feelings, I'm not so good with words, but the long and the short of it is: I love her. She has the truest, most steadfast heart in the world, and if she'll have me, I'll be the luckiest man that ever lived."

"You'll get no argument for me, Vic. Since we're admitting fault, I acknowledge I didn't get her at first, not like you did. You were right all along. She can be a royal pain in the hindquarters, and she's led you a merry chase, but she's worth all of that, and more."

Vic's eyes glinted with good-natured mockery. "So, you're not going to try to talk me out of it?"

"Would it do any good?"

"Not a bit." Vic grinned, and Tim answered in kind. Their gazes met and held, and in that long moment, they shared an openness and an amity they had not known in over thirty years. Vic was the first to look away. "I've got one more act of contrition to make. About Jay. I thought she was a silly, self-absorbed little miss who treated you badly and didn't value you as she should. I know it's not my place to say, but I've come to believe she really does care about you."

Tim drew in a calming breath, let it out. "I'm beginning to think she might, at that. The last few weeks have given me new hope. She's a lot stronger than she used to be."

"Do you still love her?"

"Oh, as to that, I've been resigned to the fact she's my one and only for an eon now. So, you see, Vic, I know just what you're talking about."

"So, what're you going to do about it?"

"Do?" Tim bowed his head, and considered the question, but what was there to think about, after all? "I guess I'm going to follow your lead, Vic. Forty more days. A time for prayer, penance, and atonement, and then, with any luck, redemption and rebirth." He held his hand out to his brother, who took it in his firm grip.

They were agreed. "Forty more days."


	30. Chapter 30: Climax

Chapter 30: Climax

Bones crept through the silent house, feeling her way carefully in the dark. The toes of her bare feet curled against the cold hardwood floor, but there was no help for it; she hadn't wanted to rummage around for her slippers for fear of waking Booth. She wrapped her robe more tightly about her, collected the laptop from the breakfast bar, and moved into the living area where she settled herself on the couch, the throw blanket over her lap against the early morning chill.

She chided herself for sacrificing sleep for a tale, especially considering that, not only the denouement of Booth's tale, but all the incidents leading up to it were very well known to her. But, that was generally the way of stories: the fan of detective novels is certain the crime will be solved in the end, the lover of romance trusts the heroine and her hero will find true happiness, and the reader of lurid graphic novels expects good to triumph over evil every time. It is not the destination in itself that grips and then compels the imagination, but the intricate, twisting pathway to it.

Bones found her place along the pathway, and continued her journey.

A Tale of Twin Booths, cont'd

It took nearly the full forty days for Fate to prove the poet Robert Burns was right: the best laid plans of mice and men do often go awry. By Easter, Vic and Tim were far too concerned with matters of literal life and death to worry about the symbolic. Sniper-turned-vigilante Jacob Brodsky was on a killing spree, and the Booths' determination to bring him to justice had put them both, and everyone they cared about, in the shooter's crosshairs.

In the end, it was the most inoffensive young man in the world, Vincent Nigel-Murray, who bore the cost of the Brodsky manhunt. The bullet that neatly severed his aorta had been meant to take out Vic, the sniper's sworn enemy, but in an irony of tragic proportions, it pierced the gentle heart of a socially-awkward British squintern who would have flinched at hurting a fly. Only that morning, Vincent had been giddy as a child, playing with his replica T-Rex bones and engaging in human versus dinosaur arm-wrestling with Hodgins. That innocent happiness made the horrendous loss all the more devastating, insupportable, surreal. So much sweetness and promise gone, snatched away in a second… It defied belief.

Vic lay in his bed that night, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. Beyond the closed door to his room, the springs of his couch creaked at regular intervals: Brennan tossing and turning, likely hearing endlessly repeated, as he did, the loud crack of the skylight shattering, and the patter of the glass shards landing all around them like hail. With Brodsky still at large and unappeased, Vic had insisted that Tim escort Jay back to the condo and keep watch over her there, while Brennan was to come home with him. Out of consideration for him, knowing he needed to be at his best in the morning to face Brodsky, Brennan had chosen to leave him the bed and sack out in the living room, but she need not have sacrificed herself. Sleep was having nothing to do with him.

He was so very angry: angry at that self-righteous bastard Brodsky, who thought he had the right to mete out summary justice, angry at his so-called merciful God, who could allow an unsuspecting by-stander to die, angry at himself, for not having prevented it. What had possessed him to hand the phone to Nigel-Murray, the very phone that Brodsky had left for him at the graveyard? He ought to have realized the danger it represented. And why, in the name of all that was holy, hadn't he shot Brodsky dead when he'd had the chance? Why hadn't he hunted the man down like the rabid dog he was? If he had brought himself to take that life, Nigel-Murray would still be spouting his non-stop trivia and looking forward to presenting his analysis of the bio-mechanics of T-Rex' stubby forearms.

Suddenly, his bedroom door swung inward. He reached for his gun, but it was only Brennan, her palms raised in surrender. "What's the matter?" he asked, although he knew the answer. "Can't sleep?" He sat up, and swung himself into a sitting position on the edge of the bed.

She dropped down beside him, face drawn, dark circles under her eyes. "I'm just… so…" She groped for the right word. "… angry!"

"I know. Me, too."

She didn't appear to have heard him. "He was my favorite intern! Everybody knew that! And, I did nothing! He died begging me not to make him leave. And, I couldn't! I failed him. What's the use of being a genius and the leading forensic anthropologist in the world when you're helpless to save the people you care about?"

"Don't beat yourself up, Brennan: you're not to blame. I'm the one. You said it yourself: I have his blood on my hands."

"What? No! You know I meant that literally. No one blames you, least of all me. You did everything you could."

"So, who's to blame, then? God? The universe? The U. S. Army who turned Brodsky into a killer, and left him alone to deal with the guilt?"

Brennan sighed wearily, and sagged against him. "Anger is so much easier than grief."

"Yes," Vic agreed. "Yes, it is."

She turned her haggard face up to his. "Hold me?" she said, in a small voice.

"That's what I'm here for." He wrapped his arm around her, and fell backward onto the bed, clasping her to him. She buried her face against his shoulder, and cried, not noisy, tempestuous tears but a number of racking, near-soundless sobs, and then she was still. He thought, after a time, she'd dozed off, and he closed his eyes as well.

He awoke minutes or hours later to the feel of her hand drawing a lazy circle on his chest, skimming slowly down over his ribs, over the band of his boxer shorts, over his hip. He snatched it up, and drew it quickly back over his waist. "Brennan!" he whispered, in case she was moving in her sleep. "What are you doing?"

She drew her head off his shoulder, and gazed up at him, awake but perplexed. "Isn't it obvious?"

"Yeah, but…" She tried to pull her hand out of his grip. "Stop it!"

"I don't understand the problem. You want me."

He could hardly deny the physical evidence. "Of course I want you! That's not the issue."

She crossed a leg over his, and began to caress his shins with the top of her foot. "We're both of us unattached, consenting adults… Is it that you're still mad?"

"No, I haven't been mad for some time, but that's gonna change mighty quick if you don't cut that out!" He rolled to his side, and tried to put some space between them, but she hooked her leg behind his knee and kept him close.

"Listen to me, Vic: right now, tonight, you and I are alive. This may be all the time we ever have. Nobody's guaranteed a tomorrow, or even another minute. I don't want to have any regrets. This is what I want, Vic, what we both want. Are you really going to turn me away?"

He released her hand, and raised his own to smooth the hair off her face and back over her ear. There she was, the girl he'd fallen in love with, her chin tipped up defiantly, a challenge in her brilliant eyes. After so many years spent waiting for just this moment, he couldn't believe he was actually going to refuse her. "I don't want to have sex with you, Brennan."

She fisted her two hands in the cotton of his t-shirt, and yanked him closer. "That's a lie," she growled.

Vic looked into that fierce visage, and thought about what he'd said. "Right, as usual. I left out an important word. I should have said: I don't want to _just_ have sex with you."

That gave her pause, but not for long. "You want something more, is that it? Well, spell it out for me, then. What's it going to take, Vic? What's the deal?"

And so, all unexpected, the moment was upon him, his own personal Rubicon. It was the last throw of the dice, the gamble of a lifetime. "You want to know what the deal is, Brennan? Well, here it is. Here's what I want: your body — God, yes! — _and_ your whole heart with it. I want tonight and tomorrow, and the next ten, twenty, thirty years. I want full commitment, freely given, or nothing at all. That's the deal. Take it or leave it."

In the low light, he might easily have been wrong, but he could have sworn he saw a hint of a smile playing on her lips. "Those are my only choices?"

"Those are your only choices," he said, hoarsely.

She tugged him so close they were practically nose to nose. There was, now, no mistaking her small, satisfied smile. "Then," she murmured, "I'll take the deal."

Vic was on the point of exclaiming "What? Whoa! Really?," but she closed the distance between them and stopped his mouth with hers. She released his mangled t-shirt, and threaded her arms over his shoulders, round his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair. She kissed him with single-minded fervor, hungrily, open-mouthed, as if she'd devour him if she could. Vic had no time to think, to plan, to bring to bear all his considerable technique. All the sexual fantasies he'd ever woven around this woman were chased from his mind: there was no cherishing her, taking care of her, seeing to her satisfaction, multiple times if possible, before his own. She was having none of that. No, she wanted everything he had, and she wanted it now. She was not gentle with him, and didn't ask for tenderness in turn. She was locking holds, and rolling him over, pinning him down, raking fingers down his back, nipping his ear. She branded him with love bites, marred his skin with scratches, and gripped him so tightly as to bruise, and he did not care. He loved her strength, her passion, her energy; she was a force of nature, demanding, implacable, a creature of fevered flesh, burning up, burning him with her, melting him so they ran together, one substance flowing, blistering hot, steaming, expanding, flame rising, rising higher, reaching incredible heights, until, flash point achieved, they exploded together into blinding smithereens skyrocketing high into the stratosphere and only very gradually arcing and falling like shooting stars back down.

When he once again knew who and where he was, Vic was horrified to find himself sprawled bonelessly over Brennan, in all likelihood crushing the breath out of her. He moved to lift his weight off, but she hooked a leg over his thigh, refusing to relinquish him, so he wrapped her in his arms, and rolled over so they were lying side by side. She tucked her head under his chin, and snuggled closer, her hands flat against his upper back. He dropped a kiss on the crown of her head, and closed his eyes, more at peace than he'd been in his entire life.

In the moment before sleep overtook him again, Brennan's shoulders started quaking, and Vic could just make out the small, choking noises she tried to muffle against his chest. He felt, too, the splash of a warm tear on his skin. Dear God, had he been too rough? He tried to draw back, to disentangle himself from her embrace, but she only clung more tightly, her whole torso shaking now, her breath catching in great gulps. "Temperance," he said, in a panic. "Look at me, please! Did I hurt you?"

She only rubbed her forehead "no" against his breastbone and turned her face into his shoulder, still racked with spasms.

"Temperance, you're killing me, here. Tell me what's the matter!"

She quieted for a second, and just when he thought she'd mastered herself, she was off again, gasping and… chortling. She was laughing? He raised his hands to her shoulders, and pried her away from him. She looked up at him sheepishly, her eyes streaming with tears, her lips pressed tightly together in an effort to stifle her hilarity. "I'm sorry," she said, in a voice that wobbled with suppressed laughter. "It's just… play-doh!" she managed before breaking out in a whoop.

"Play-doh?" Vic repeated blankly. Her mind could not have been literally blown, could it? That would be a terrible waste. "Play-doh, the clay kids play with?"

She nodded, her lower lip firmly caught between her teeth to keep the laugher at bay. "I was just thinking how we'd actually done it, you and me: found our missing halves, completed each other. We re-created Plato's original human: four arms, four legs, two faces. And, then I remembered…"

He suddenly understood. "The conversation about soul mates! I pretended to misunderstand you. Talk about delayed reaction! You barely got the joke at the time."

"I know. I'm sorry." She wiped the happy tears away with her fingers. "Once I started, I just couldn't seem to stop."

It was while he waited for her chuckling to die away, that he realized what she'd said. "So… I'm your missing half, your soul mate? Seriously?"

She fixed her frank, open gaze on him. "Seriously."

That look, that word gave him the courage he needed to share a truth that touched his heart so nearly. "Temperance, I want to tell you something, and it might seem like I'm kidding, but, just so you know: I'm not."

Her eyes still locked on his, she nodded. "Tell me."

He laid his palm softly against her jaw, and ran his thumb along her lower lip. "Tonight, what happened here, between you and me? That was… ah… my first time."

Her brows drew down in confusion. "I don't understand. You've had lots of sex partners…"

" _Sex_ partners, yeah, but that's not what I'm talking about. That was my first time… making love."

"Oh!" One elongated syllable that spoke of surprise, wonder and dawning delight. "I _am_ glad! It was for me, too. All these years, I've never felt anything like it: so selfless, so joyous, so free."

"I didn't know where I ended, and you began."

"Yes! Yes, that's it, exactly."

He touched his forehead to hers, and smiled into her eyes. "It's going to take a while getting used to: you and me, together. It seems too good to believe, like a dream come true, but it's not a dream, is it? I really did it. I finally caught you."

She shook her head in gentle remonstrance. "No, Vic, you've got that wrong. You didn't catch me."

"But, you said…"

She placed a finger across his lips. "You numbskull," she said in the most loving way imaginable. "We caught each other."


	31. Chapter 31: Consummation

What He Offered

Chapter 31: Consummation

Bones took a moment to wave a cooling hand before her heated face. Goodness, what purple prose! And, talk about euphemism! Would Tim and Jay have a similarly torrid scene? She read on.

A Tale of Twin Booths, cont'd

Jay sat on the couch, hugging a throw pillow in a brightly-colored tribal print to her mid-section. Before her on the glass-topped coffee table, an open bottle of beer sweated, practically untouched. "I still can't believe it," she said. "How can such a thing happen so fast? One minute, Mr. Nigel-Murray was standing, holding the phone, and the next…" She shuddered.

Seated across from her in an armchair, Tim studied the label of his own bottle without making any sense of it. "I didn't know him very well, but what I knew of him, I liked."

"He was an overgrown kid, really. Just recently, he made the rounds apologizing to everyone he'd wronged. Some of his peccadillos were really quite funny. He asked Tempe, for example, to forgive him for borrowing our iguana one evening when we were out of town, and wearing the poor beast as a hat!" She smiled sadly at the memory. "And, he apologized to Cam, Angela and most every other woman at the lab for having claimed, at one time or another, to be her lover."

"But, not to you?"

"Oh, yes! I came in for my share. Apparently, he spread the rumor that he and I were each other's 'sexual playthings'."

Tim scowled, outraged. "Of all the nerve! I'm liking him less by the minute."

"I'm afraid I laughed in his face when he told me, poor guy. It's so absurd, I'm sure no one believed it."

"Sorry, I don't follow. What was so incredible about it?"

"Well, I have a reputation for being…" A flush began to stain her cheeks, and she looked away, unable or unwilling to finish.

 _Out of Nigel-Murray's league_ was Tim's first thought, but he suggested, "Discriminating in your choice of men?"

"That's nicer than 'something of a nun,' so, I'll take it," she answered, shyly. She put the pillow aside, and stood up. "It's late. You'll want to get some sleep. There're clean sheets on Tempe's bed, and fresh towels and a new toothbrush in the bathroom. If you need anything else…?"

He got to his feet, and passed her his half-full bottle. "Directions would be good. I've never seen the sleeping quarters here."

Jay's bedroom was the nearer of the two along the hall off the kitchen, with her sister's at the far end, and a bathroom that could be accessed from either side in between. Brennan's room was decorated similarly to the public rooms of the condo, with sleek, modern-style furniture, hand-loomed rugs, woven hangings and hardwood carvings collected in Africa and South America on the walls, and shelves displaying a motley of figurines, baskets and pottery vessels from the world over. Tim was pleased to see the replica grecian urn he'd given Brennan one Christmas in pride of place. "It's a portrait of you and Vic," he'd told her, pointing to the decorative detail of Zeus in his eternal chase of Aegina. He wondered if the slip of paper onto which he'd copied John Keats' famous ode was still inside, and if Brennan had ever found it. He suspected not.

Tim washed up quickly, turned back the covers, and, wearing nothing more than his boxers, slipped between the sheets. He fully expected to spend a sleepless night reliving the day's events, trying to come to terms with the insanity of it all. He didn't need his twin "spidey" sense to know that Vic was also lying wakeful in his bed wrestling with guilt, rage, and sorrow. His brother was a good man, whose primary purpose in life was to protect and serve, to take on other people's problems and to solve them; he would be excoriating himself mercilessly for Nigel-Murray's demise. Brennan, too, was reeling from the shock and grief of losing her favorite intern, as was the rest of the Jeffersonian team. And, what of Mrs. Nigel-Murray, an ocean away, whose placid life would soon be shattered by the news of her only son's murder? What of Nigel-Murray himself, who had so wanted to be saved from the maw of death? Tim thought of all these sufferers, and his eyes, tearless since well before Afghanistan, began to fill.

Once the weeping started, he could not make it stop. His memory disgorged the many faces of human misery he had met with as a profiler: the deaf girl stolen from her loving parents, and forced by circumstances to kill in self-defense, the woman who had unintentionally caused her agoraphobic former lover a lingering death from starvation, the teenage boy who had stood up to blackmailers and been left hanging from a tree branch, his friend Tanaka's sister who had not only been murdered, but beheaded as well. For these, and for so many other victims of violence, Tim wept.

He cried, too, for all the soldiers who had come to him for solace during Desert Storm and more recently in Afghanistan: those who had lost comrades to IEDs, those who had failed to staunch a critical wound, or intercept a fatal bullet, radio operators who had had to turn a deaf ear to men in urgent need of air support, helicopter pilots who could find no safe place to land to effect a rescue, men and women who had panicked while on patrol and killed or maimed innocent civilians. For all of these, as well as for the homesick, the dispirited, and the simply wretched, Tim wept.

He lay on his side with his back to the door, and so did not see it swing inward. The first he knew of Jay's presence was the mattress sagging beneath her weight on the far side of the bed. Conscious of his tear-ravaged face, he tried to feign deep, even breathing, so she would think him asleep, and leave, but she was not fooled. "Tim," she said, quietly, "you don't have to pretend with me. How can I help?"

"I'm fine." He hoped his thick voice didn't betray him too badly. "I'm sorry if I disturbed you."

"Whatever it is, you don't have to be alone with it. I'm here for you."

"No, really. It's… it's nothing. I'm over it. Go back to bed."

She was stock still a long moment, and he waited, not knowing quite what he wished would happen. And then, the mattress sagged again, and all he heard was the padding of her bare feet as she left the room.

He'd just decided that he was, after all, more disappointed than relieved at her departure, when she returned, and climbed back onto the bed. She reached her forearm over his shoulder, a thick square of white fabric dangling from her hand. Even in the low light of the one night table lamp, he could make out the raised letter B in the corner. He accepted the crisp linen handkerchief, and began to repair the worst of the damage. "You kept it all this time."

"I've been waiting for the right moment to give it back to you. I guess this is it." She said no more while he finished mopping up, and then, continued, "Tim, please don't send me away. They have a proverb in Honduras: 'Grief shared is half grief.' Let me lighten your burden, if only a little."

All his life, Tim had been waiting for this very offer, and yet, now that Jay had made it, he was hesitant to accept. What if he repelled her? "You don't know what you're asking."

"Do you think if I see you vulnerable, needing me, I'll run, Tim? I won't. I've improved. You'll see. You can trust me."

He couldn't deny her after that. He turned onto his back, and laid his head on the pillow, open to her inspection.

Her face clouded with sadness and concern at the sight of him, but she did not recoil. "Those bloodshot eyes and red-tipped nose don't do a thing for you, Tim, but you're still handsome enough for government work. Do you think I could lie down with you? I won't if you'd rather not."

In answer, he moved to make room for her, and, when she'd stretched out next to him on her side, he rolled to face her. She took the handkerchief he still held crumpled in his hand, and blotted away the remaining dampness on his cheeks. "There," she said. "Now, tell me."

He obeyed. In fits and starts at first, and then, more easily, he unwound the bandages around his bleeding heart, and allowed her an unobstructed view of that scarred and battered organ. It could not have been a pretty sight, but she did not shy away, not even when he revealed the two deepest, rawest cuts, the newer of which he had inflicted upon himself in a moment of stupidity and impatience, and the other, the oldest one of all, the jagged hole his mother had torn in him when she left.

Jay had never heard of his abandonment, and as she listened to the tale, tears streamed freely down her face. "No," she said, when, in his dismay at making her cry, he would have dropped the subject. "I may not be impervious anymore, but I _am_ impermeable. Don't worry about me."

He spoke until he ran dry of both words and tears. Somewhere along the way, in an expression of compassion and fellow feeling, she had worked her shoulder under his, and laid her head in the crook of his neck, and he had wrapped his arms loosely around her, and rested his cheek on the pillow of her hair. It was in this position that sleep found them at last.

Tim awoke minutes or hours later to find himself alone. If not for the lingering trace of warmth on the sheets, he might have thought it had all been a dream. Had Jay returned to her own bed, he wondered, and why? He rolled onto his side to check the time on the bedside clock: thirteen minutes to five. Too early, surely, to start the day, especially given the little sleep they'd had. He turned onto his back, and there she was, stepping out of the bathroom and climbing back into bed. She slid between his side and outstretched arm, and, supporting herself on one elbow, skimmed her other arm over his torso until she was half-leaning on his chest. She looked down at him, and smiled gamely, her expression sweet and uncertain.

He knew what she would say before she said it. He had lived this scene before, had relived it so many times in memory, had been homesick for it. Then, as now, her hair fell forward, obscuring her beautiful face. Yes, there was the urge to reach up and smooth it back over her ear. Dear Lord, please let him not be dreaming again.

"Do you love me?" Jay asked. His dream-Jay had been confident, almost cocky, but this woman, this morning, was tentative, shy.

He knew his lines, and even though they might not precisely fit real-life, he couldn't resist saying them. "Yes. Do you want me to prove it?"

Right on cue, she gave her answer: "If you're not too sleepy."

And, here, he thought, his spirits sinking, was where the two scenes had to diverge. "Jay… no," he told her, regretfully.

"You don't want me?"

"I want you very much." There was no lack of physical evidence of that.

"Is it because of Mr. Nigel-Murray?"

"No. Or, at least, yes, in small part."

"I don't think he would begrudge us some happiness, Tim. He wasn't like that."

"It's not that so much as… well, to be blunt about it, I don't want to have comfort sex with you, Jay."

"That's what you think I'm offering? Comfort sex? You couldn't be more wrong, Tim. I liked Vincent, and I mourn his passing, but what I want, right now, is to celebrate _life_ , life and the love I feel for you. I asked if you loved me, and you said, 'yes.' Well, actions speak louder than words, Tim: prove it to me."

It had been more than two years since Tim had held a woman in his arms for any purpose other than consolation, and he sped a quick prayer heavenward that his rustiness wouldn't matter. He rolled her over onto her back, and, with trembling hands, helped her shimmy out of her nightdress. All coherent thought vanished at the wondrous sight of her perfect nakedness, and he might have remained transfixed forever by her beauty, except for Jay's busy hands at the waistband of his boxers. When, at last, their clothes shed, they came together skin to skin, the shock of pleasure was so great, Tim wondered how he could have lived so long without it. They were tender with each other, hands gently stroking, fingers caressing, legs loosely tangled together. They kissed long and deeply, drowning in each other, only coming up briefly for air. The sheets twisted and bunched beneath them, white whorls like eddying water, and then, they two were as if on water, borne up, afloat, sucked out to sea, one fragile boat, on a boundless ocean that welled from deep below, a mighty swell lifting them up, carrying them on its surge, racing toward who knew what shore, rollers building ever higher, higher, until they rode a towering wall of water, scaling unimagined heights, and then, cresting, and at long last, a blessed breaking, and a crashing back down, and a flooding, sweeping all before it, even consciousness.

When he once again knew who and where he was, Tim was distressed to find himself sprawled bonelessly over Jay, like so much storm wreckage washed ashore. He moved to lift his weight off, but she locked her arms around his lower back, refusing to relinquish him, so he enfolded her in his arms, and rolled them onto their sides. She tucked her head under his chin, and snuggled closer, her hands flat against his upper chest. He dropped a kiss on her tussled hair, and, with a quick glance to ascertain the time — nearly quarter to six — closed his eyes.

In the moment before sleep overtook him again, he heard Jay say, "I think we did it, Tim: we came very close to breaking the laws of physics."

"We did what?" In his fuzzy state, he wasn't in any shape to discuss scientific principles.

"Came close to breaking the laws of physics. You remember: two physical objects can't occupy the same space. But, you said, when two people make love, they can come close. I… I thought we did, but it was my first time making love, so…"

He squeezed her more tightly to him. "It was my first time, too. And, yes, you and me, just now, together: that was a miracle. I've never felt so much joy in my life."

To his consternation, Jay's shoulders started shaking. "Oh, Tim, sweetie, that _was_ funny. It's a pun, because you felt 'joy' as an emotion, and you felt me, Joy, in the flesh. Double joy!" She chuckled happily.

Tim decided not to disabuse her as to his cleverness. "It's true: you are my one, true Joy, the greatest of my life."

She pushed back against his arms, and he loosened his hold so she could draw back sufficiently to look up into his face. There was no laughter in her eyes, now, only pure sincerity. "I want to be your Ruth, too, Tim. I've been afraid — afraid I wouldn't be enough for you, afraid to fail you — but I don't want to let fear govern me any longer. I love you, Tim, and I want to be your loyal friend, your faithful companion, your one and only for the next thirty, forty, fifty years. That is, if you'll have me. Will you, Tim?"

Then, for the first time in his life, Tim's heart overflowed, not with sorrow, but with the healing balm of happiness. "Yes." He knew he must be grinning like a fool, but he couldn't help himself. "Of course. Yes." He sealed the deal with a kiss.


	32. Chapter 32: Compassion Night

What He Offered

Chapter 32: Compassion Night

Why, Bones thought crossly, was there never a tissue box near to hand when it was needed? She dashed away the bittersweet tears the consummation of Tim and Jay's love had prompted, and smiled at Booth's cleverness in including her off-beat proposal of marriage in the scene's ending. Well-done!

Surely, there couldn't be much more of the story left now. She continued reading.

A Tale of Twin Booths, cont'd

If, at any time in the eighteen months that followed the take-down of Jacob Brodsky, Vic or Tim had been asked what they needed to make their lives complete, they would have answered without hesitation: not a blessed thing. In addition to each other and worthwhile careers at which they excelled, they now had a new home in a leafy D. C. residential area which they shared with the two women they had long adored, and who, incredibly enough, loved them in equal measure, as well as with their precious baby daughters, Chris and Tina, about whom more anon. The old order had, indeed, changed, and yielded place to the new; the hope they had dared to nurse on that long ago Ash Wednesday evening had been realized, and they could not have been happier.

Ironically, it was only then, when they had outgrown all need for her, and no longer thought to look for her return, that their mother, Marianne Booth, reappeared. She was in Vic's office one day when Tim breezed in to drop some files on his brother's desk. He did not immediately see the attractive, older woman ensconced in the chair by the door, and when he did, he naturally assumed she was waiting for Vic, who had been called away to a crime scene. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but…" he began automatically, only to be brought up short when he recognized her. "Mom?"

She smiled with a hint of her old bravado, but her eyes betrayed uncertainty. "I wasn't sure you'd remember me. What's it been, twenty-five years?"

Tim perched on the edge of the desk, and drank in the sight of her. "Twenty-four."

"You always were the one to look on the bright side, Timothy," she said, fondly. Her gaze faltered. "I should start by apologizing…"

"You don't have to apologize to me, Mom," he broke in. "I know what you went through. I never blamed you for leaving."

"Didn't you? All these years, I've been thinking you probably hated me…."

"Mom," he interrupted again. "I never hated you. I… missed you." He dragged another of the arm chairs in front of his mother, and lowered himself into it, so they were knee to knee. She held her hands clasped tightly in her lap; he laid one of his over them. "I always knew you'd come back. Do I wish it could've been sooner? Of course, but the important thing is, you're here, now, and I've got so much to tell you. I'm with the most wonderful woman. Her name is Joy, which is a lot of name to live up to, but she does it. And we have a daughter, Tina. Vic has two children of his own. You're a grandmother, three times over!"

Tim had the satisfaction of seeing some of his mother's tension drain away, and a bit of sparkle return to her eyes. "I'm too young to be a grandmother," she joked, game as ever.

He rose reluctantly to his feet, and put the chair back in its place. "Listen, Mom, I've got to get back to work, and Vic's been delayed, so…" He tore a sheet off the notepad on the desk, wrote down their address and handed it to her. "I want you to come stay with us. No arguments." She stood up for their good-byes, and Tim drew her into arms, hugging her tight. When he stepped back, he smiled warmly at her. "See you tonight. Oh, and Mom," he said, pausing on his way out, "a word of warning: expect Vic to be a little grumpy at first."

His mother looked at him in consternation. "Is Victor very angry with me?"

"What? Oh, no, it's not that. I always told him you'd be back, and here you are. It drives him crazy when I'm right."

What began as a joke, soon proved prophetic, however. While initially welcoming, Vic had only to learn that Marianne had had a hand in raising another man's children for his old resentment and hostility to surface with a vengeance. "Can you believe the gall of that woman?" he steamed, when he and Tim were finishing their beers after dinner. As a result of Vic's harsh words earlier in the day, their mother had packed her bags and taken a room at a hotel. "She only came back to soothe her feelings of guilt so she can move on with her piano-player fiancé. She comes waltzing back into our lives, devil-may-care, and expects us to walk her down the aisle at her wedding? Well, far as I'm concerned, she can just forget it."

"Explain it to me again, why you're so mad at her. Because, to be honest with you, I don't get it."

"She left _us,_ Tim, you and me. It wasn't that she couldn't handle being a mother, which is what I always wanted to believe; she couldn't handle being _our_ mother."

"And, you know this… how? Did she tell you, in so many words, that you drove her away with your bratty ways? Or, that I was too needy, and smothered her with demands for attention? Did she say her step-kids were a lot easier to love? Did you even give her a chance to explain?"

"What's to explain?" Vic said, curt in his exasperation. "She left us when we needed her. How can you just let bygones be bygones after that?"

"Look, Vic, I don't know why she left, or why she stayed away so long, and I don't need to know to be able to forgive her. I grieved her loss for years, but then, I fell in love with Joy, and, after that, there wasn't any more than a small corner of my heart left for Mom. I let her go then, freely and without rancor. I have my heart's desire, Vic: Joy and Tina are my life, now. I'll always be glad to see Mom, but she's not essential to my happiness any more."

"And, I suppose you told her that," Vic sneered.

"I did, actually: yesterday, when I introduced her to Joy. I said something like, 'Mom, meet the woman who stole my heart away from you.' Mom's happy for me, Vic, and she's happy for you, too. She said it's what all mothers want: for their sons to find mature love with another woman, even if it means she gets left behind. She sees the life we've built here, the family we're creating, and it gives her great satisfaction."

"Yeah, well, if we have a good life, now, it's no thanks to her."

"Well, I'm not so sure about that. I'm speaking only for myself, here, but, in a way, her leaving was a gift. If I hadn't known the terrible pain of losing her, I wouldn't be able to empathize so strongly with the suffering of others. It's because I've known and learned to deal personally with heartache, that I can recognize it in other people, and offer them some degree of comfort. Her abandoning us shaped me, for good as well as ill."

Vic favored his twin with a mocking look. "You'll have to excuse me if I can't be as magnanimous as you, Saint Tim."

"You're a constant trial to me, my son," Tim said, in his best father-confessor tone. "Look, all I'm saying is, Mom must've had her reasons. They don't matter to me, but, obviously, they do to you. So, give her a chance, let her tell you her side of things. Women leave, we both know that, but it's more nuanced than that. Sometimes women leave, and they stay away, _out of love_. That's what I've learned from loving Joy: she ran off to Maluku not because she didn't love me, but because she loved me too much to risk hurting me. That's not how I took it at the time, but that's on me. And there's you and Brennan, too: she didn't want to leave you for a year, but she went because she loves her sister, and because she thought you were on board with it. You trusted, at first, that she loved you and would come back, but, then, when you didn't hear from her, you lost faith and decided, without any proof, that she didn't love you after all. By the time she _did_ come back, you'd convinced yourself _she_ 'd betrayed you, when the truth of the matter was, you gave up too soon. Huh, I'm beginning to see a pattern…"

Vic yanked the empty bottle from his brother's hand, and pushed back from the table. "I hate you."

"So noted." Tim rose in his turn. "Anyway, you do what you have to do. Joy and I are planning to attend the wedding, and I don't have any problem giving Mom away. But then, maybe it's all for the best" he said, making his way toward his side of the residence. "I always was her favorite child."

As it was easier to be annoyed with Tim than to give his arguments serious consideration, Vic was still angry with their mother when she turned up at his office the next day. "I'm busy," he said, gruffly, when she walked in.

Unintimidated, Marianne stood her ground, and said her piece. "Children expect their parents to be God-like, Victor, invulnerable and all-powerful, but parents are only people, with weaknesses and flaws. I did the best I could for you and Timothy, but it was never enough, I wasn't strong enough, and you may despise me for that, but I am only human, and I have forgiven myself, even if you never can.

"It took real courage for me to come back into your life, Victor. I was certain you must hate me, and I can't blame you if you do. When I didn't come back and take you away from your father, you must have thought the worst: that I didn't want you, didn't care about you, when the truth was, I couldn't face the shame of what I'd done to you. After you went to live with Hank, I thought you'd be better off without me. How could I disrupt your lives when I had nothing to offer you but misery? If I've been so bold as to come back now, it's because I finally have something worthwhile to share with you, something positive to offer: a loving step-father, a step-brother and step-sister. The family I couldn't give you a quarter-century ago…

"I can see now that I left it too late, and you want nothing to do with me. Please know that, if I had a chance to do it all over, I'd do things very differently, but that is neither here not there. I will take the happy moments of these last two days with me, and hold them forever in my heart."

Vic had sat, stone-faced, through all of this speech, and, as he did not appear to have any response to it once delivered, Marianne gathered her dignity about her, and left. Alone again, with her words replaying in his ears, Vic was ashamed of his obduracy, both on general principles and because, as she had obliquely implied, he had behaved like a spoiled child: unreasonable in his expectations of her past self, sulky in his disappointment, and unappreciative of the effort it had cost her to make this overture. She had risked the pain and humiliation of rejection for the chance to reconnect with her sons, and he had given her short shrift.

"She was genuinely sorry, Temperance, but I couldn't soften toward her," he said bitterly when he and Brennan sat talking outside the Royal Diner. "I let her walk away unforgiven. How could I be so hard on her, my own mother?"

"Precisely _because_ she's your mother, I expect," Brennan said. "The tie between mother and child is a sacred trust, and to breach that trust is unforgivable. It could mean the child's death. You must have felt, as a young boy, that she jeopardized your very life by leaving. But, here you are, Vic. You've survived. You've even flourished. I think you can afford to be the bigger person in this situation. Think of what Christ endured, and still managed to forgive. That's the real challenge of Christianity: not to retaliate when injured, but to turn the other cheek."

As Vic lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, he tried to wrestle the tumult of his feelings into some kind of order. _Forgive others, that you may be forgiven,_ he reminded himself. _Be the bigger person,_ Brennan's voice whispered in his mind. _Let her go,_ Tim counseled. _Grow a set,_ Gordon Gordon advised impatiently. He had his heart's desire, after all: Brennan and Chris were his life, now, and so much more than he deserved. Punishing his mother would not add to that happiness, and rejecting her merely tied him to a past he ought by now to have outgrown.

And yet… Vic had thought, upon finding love with Brennan, that the shell encasing his heart had shattered for good, but searching that organ, now, he discovered there was one small corner still calcified: the corner of his heart that belonged to his mother. The build-up there was particularly thick; it dated, after all, to his childhood, and held, petrified in its layers, the intolerable pain her leaving had caused. Anger is so much easier than grief, Brennan had once told him, and it humbled him now to realize how much braver his "weak" twin had been all those years ago, for Tim had not shut out the suffering, but had endured it and come out the other side, something he himself had never done.

Fearing his agitation would disturb Brennan's sleep, he slipped out of bed, and wandered about the house, until eventually he found himself in the girls' room, standing over Chris' crib. She was his little cherub, awake or dreaming, but she looked particularly angelic lying there, her gold curls a riotous halo, her chubby cheeks flushed pink, her tiny lips shaped like a perfect Cupid's bow. He tried to imagine leaving her, and every feeling immediately revolted. No, only a monster could abandon his own child. Was his mother a monster, then? A cold, unnatural woman? He knew she was not.

 _She had to save herself,_ Tim argued in his mind. Her husband had been capable of throwing her down the stairs; what other violence might he not have done? Vic looked down at his daughter, and asked himself, if he had to sacrifice his life to save hers, would he? There was really no question: he would give his own, and gladly. But, just imagine if, in a moment of cowardice, he balked, if he chose his own safety over hers… The very idea was unbearable: he would hate himself forever, he could never look in the mirror again. _I couldn't face the shame of what I'd done to you,_ his mother had said. And _parents are only people, with weaknesses and flaws_. She had not had the strength to meet a parent's greatest challenge. How she must have loathed herself, and no wonder she had not returned until now.

"Vic?" He turned to see Brennan in the doorway. "Can't sleep?"

When she'd joined him by the crib, he put an arm around her shoulder, and drew her close. "Sorry if I woke you." Just then, Chris rolled onto her side, taking the blanket with her and uncovering a fuzzy green stuffed animal. "What's that?"

Brennan fetched the ugly thing out of the crib, and held it up for Vic's inspection. "A 'Phillies Phanatic,' I gather. Marianne gave it to Chris. She won't put it down."

Vic stared at it in wonder. "It's… mine. It used to be my favorite toy."

"Yes, she mentioned that. She's carried it with her all these years, and taken excellent care of it, to judge by its condition."

"But… why?"

Brennan leaned slightly away, the better to look at him squarely. "I think you know the answer to that."

The stony patch over Vic's heart cracked painfully, and his eyes filled with tears. Brennan replaced the toy by her daughter's side, and taking Vic by the hand, led him from the room.

Later, when he'd stopped grieving for the anguished seven-year-old he had been and the unhappy woman torn between love and self-preservation who had been his mother, he accepted the crisp linen handkerchief Brennan held out to him, and mopped away the tears. "Don't look at me," he grumbled.

His Brennan had never been the obedient type. She took his face between the palms of her hands, and said, in the most loving voice imaginable, "You numbskull. I have never seen you look more handsome."

The next day, Vic joined Tim in giving their mother away in marriage, freely and without rancor.


	33. Chapter 33: Chris and Tina

What He Offered

Chapter 33: Chris and Tina

"Bones? What're you doing out here?" Booth stood by the side of the couch, looking down at her, concern writ clearly on his face. "When I woke up and found you gone, I got worried."

She swung her legs off the cushions to make room for him. "I couldn't sleep," she said, keeping her voice just above a whisper. "And, it's all your fault: I had to know how the tale ended."

He settled down beside her, his poor abused skeleton cracking and creaking as synovial gas was released. "I'm gratified you found the story compelling, but I never meant for you to lose sleep over it. How far have you gotten?"

"Let's see…" She peered down at the screen. "I'm at the section entitled 'A Tale of Twin Booths: Coda'."

"Whoa! You're right at the end. I've got to admit: this last section might be my favorite part."

"Really?" She wasn't quite able to suppress a laugh. "Not the 'climax' or 'consummation' scenes?"

It was hard to tell in the dim light, but he actually appeared to be blushing. "Yeah, well, I thought those… ah… descriptions were a bit much, but Dr. Phil kind of insisted. Speaking of which, the first sentence, right after the subtitle…"

Bones consulted the display again, and read aloud, " _Reader, they married each other_."

"Yeah, that one. Dr. Phil thought you'd get a kick out of it, but damn if I know why."

"It's a reference to a famous sentence in a classic British novel: _Reader, I married him_ from Jane Eyre."

"Oh, I get it. Jane Eyre, I know that name… She wrote Pride and Prejudice, right?"

Bones opened her mouth to correct him, but then decided Booth was already sufficiently evolved. "I would love to discuss the English literary canon with you, Booth, but right now, I have a tale to finish." Suddenly, she was struck by a brilliant idea. "Booth, you know what I would like right now?"

He went very still, and regarded her warily. "What?"

"I'd like you to read this last section out loud to me."

"We'll wake the house, if we haven't already."

"Not if you read very quietly." She pulled her features into a sad-eyed plea.

"Aw, c'mon, Bones, not _that_ face! All right, all right, if it means so much to you."

She passed him the laptop with a pleased little sigh, and curled up beside him.

Booth read:

"A Tale of Twin Booths: Coda

Reader, they married each other. On a warm sunny afternoon, among the blooming flower beds of the Jeffersonian and surrounded by colleagues, close friends and family, Mr. Victor Booth married Dr. Temperance Brennan, and Dr. Timothy Booth wed Dr. Joy Ruth Keenan. And, yes, the grooms were handsome in their tuxes, and very nearly indistinguishable one from the other, and the brides were beautiful in their off-the-shoulder white lace and French net gowns, and all in attendance could see, from the moment Max stepped onto the runner with Joy on his right arm and Temperance on his left (although it might have been the reverse), that this was the celebration of a powerful love, one that had endured uncounted trials and tribulations, and would forever stand the test of time: a miracle realized.

Attractive as the bridal couples were, they were outshone by the darling little flower girls in their plum-colored organza frocks. Seeing them together, everyone at the wedding agreed that, had they not known better, they would have assumed the two were identical twins. Indeed, had it not been for the bejeweled monogram pins they wore, and which had been commissioned for them especially for the occasion by their doting maternal grandfather, it is an open question whether anyone could have distinguished Chris Booth from her nominal cousin Tina. Matron of honor Angela Montenegro had planned for the tots to walk down the aisle one after the other, strewing rose petals as they went, but the girls refused to release one another's hand, and Angela had to settle for their completing their walk with fingers intertwined, and baskets dangling, an afterthought, at their sides.

During the ceremony, the girls sat crosslegged on the grass at the feet of their great-grandfather Hank and their grandmother Marianne, their stiff skirts puffed up around them, so that, from a distance, they resembled gigantic blossoms with burnished gold centers. They leaned into each other, giggling and whispering in a language that sounded vaguely like English, but was unintelligible to any one attempting to listen in. Afterwards, they played at chasing Parker around the gardens, but he easily eluded them until, at last, he took pity on his panting, shiny-faced pursuers and graciously allowed himself to be caught.

In their near-exhaustion, Chris and Tina permitted their fathers to pick them up, and carry them to different parts of the grounds, where each couple was to take their formal wedding portrait. The photographer had no sooner posed Vic, Brennan and Chris to his satisfaction, than the little girl let out a heartrending scream, clapped a hand over her upper arm, and burst into noisy tears. Vic scooped their daughter up and held her while Brennan, in an effort to assess the injury, pried the little fingers away, but there was no cut or puncture on the smooth skin. It was not until later that they learned that Tina had been stung by an irritated bee.

Like other guests at the wedding, Avalon Harmonia had, initially, been no more than charmed by the Misses Booth, but as she watched them, her suspicion grew that they were more than the dainty, sweet little girls they appeared: much more. Long after most of the attendees had extended their best wishes and taken themselves off, Avalon lingered on, anxious to catch the Booth brothers alone. Finally, she found them sitting together on folding chairs, each with a napping daughter cradled against his chest. She did not scruple to procure herself a chair and invite herself to join them.

"You've heard tell of the powers of the 'seventh son of a seventh son'," she began, without preamble. "Such children are said to be blessed with special skills and supernatural gifts, such as magical healing and foretelling the future. It is not as widely known, but no less true, that children, especially females, who are conceived when their parents make love for the very first time are also endowed with extraordinary abilities. I know this from personal experience, as you may have surmised." She paused for any remark, or felicitation they might care to make, but they only regarded her in frank astonishment. 'It's my contention that these little princesses of yours were conceived in such a manner.' Once again, she waited, this time for confirmation or denial, neither of which was forthcoming. 'Well, you are under no obligation to tell me, of course, but, just in case I'm right, I want you to be aware that your daughters are not to be underestimated. They have uncanny talents, potentially of great range.' Avalon nodded, satisfied at having done a good deed, and, with final heartfelt congratulations, went on her way.

The Booths had a long acquaintance with Miss Harmonia, and since they considered her something of a well-meaning kook, they did not put much stock in her admonition, but in this, they were quite wrong, for Chris and Tina Booth did, indeed, have a touch of the fey in them. They did not need training in genetics to know, for example, that they were not cousins at all, but true sisters. Their hearts spoke to each other without words, and they had no secrets from each other. They reveled in their identical looks, and played them up unapologetically, even going so far as to deceive their parents from time to time, all in good fun. Chris did not think of Tim and Jay as her uncle and aunt, but rather as her other parents, and Tina felt the same about Vic and Brennan. As the two were practically inseparable, the call of "Chris,Tina" was often heard echoing through the house, as though one person was being summoned, which, appearances to the contrary, was basically the case."

"Daddy?" They looked up, startled, to see their pajama-footed five-year-old standing on the edge of the living area. She padded closer. "Are you reading a story? Can I hear, too?"

"Hey, monkey!" Booth said, softly. "What're you doing out of bed?"

Christine shrugged. "I heard voices, so I thought it was time to get up."

"Come here, sweetheart," Bones said, lifting a corner of her throw blanket and inviting Christine onto her lap. When she was tucked up with her mother, Bones added, "But, we have to be very quiet. We don't want to disturb our guests or Hank."

Christine nodded knowingly, and Booth took up the tale:

"In time, there was born unto them (as all the good fairy tales say) a baby brother. Chris and Tina had no patience with grown-ups who insisted on knowing which of them was the "real" sister; they simply rolled their eyes, and thought, as one insightful Frenchman once wrote, that "grown-ups never understand anything by themselves, and it is tiresome for children to be always and forever explaining things to them." What did it matter to them whose sperm had fertilized the egg, or whose womb had carried the fetus to term? The baby belonged to both of his sisters equally; he was "theirs." They loved him with the same possessive passion they lavished on their parents and each other, and delighted in blowing raspberries on his jelly belly when he lay kicking on the changing table, or peppering his chubby cheeks with kisses as he bobbed in his bouncy chair.

For reasons their fey nature apprehended instinctively, their brother's name as written on his birth certificate was simply "H. Booth II." It was generally assumed that the initial stood for "Henry" or "Hank," but Chris and Tina knew better. They had internalized the central lesson of Rumplestiltskin, so they appreciated the power inherent in knowing another person's true name. Sometimes, if they were feeling mischievous, they would reveal that, while their baby's first name was not "Hank," the first two letters were, indeed, "Ha" and if that one syllable were repeated quickly many times, his true name might be guessed. Mostly, however, they guarded the secret jealously, even going so far as to use the code name "Seeley" when talking of their brother together, "Seeley" being a rough equivalent of H.'s hidden name in their special language.

On the mystically important day of H.'s baptism, Chris and Tina, richly dressed in their ceremonial clothes, stood on opposite sides of their brother's cradle, and joined hands over his sleeping form. Gazes locked together, they made the solemn pledge never to leave their brother in the lurch, but to be available to him all his life as his better angels. When he was injured, they would apply salve and bandage his hurts, and when he sorrowed, they would do their best to comfort and cheer him, which is not to say they would allow him to whine, to wallow in self-pity, or to play upon their sympathies. When he was bold and strove fiercely to achieve his goals, they would support him with all their might, and when he was righteously outraged, they would stand beside him and fight, too, if necessary, which is not to say they would permit him to throw temper tantrums, be an obnoxious bully, or treat them and others with condescension or disrespect. "Everything in moderation," Chris said, and Tina replied, with a wisdom beyond her years, "including moderation."

They closed their eyes, and, with their preternatural senses, they cast into the future, looking for clues as to what it held in store for their boy. They saw him growing straight and tall, strong and agile, good-looking and good-natured, clear-eyed, right-thinking: a fine and honorable man. They saw, and would see to, his fulfilling the golden promise of his secret name: Happy Booth, living joyfully ever after.

The End."

"Oh, Daddy!" Christine breathed, enraptured. "I _like_ that story. Read it again!"

"Christine," Bones said, in gentle admonishment, "what do you say?"

" _Please_ read it again, Daddy?"

"Yes, Daddy," Bones echoed, a wicked gleam in her eye. "Please? From the top."


	34. Chapter 34: Christmas Present

What He Offered

Chapter 34: Christmas Present

"Yeah, baby!" Booth put the post-game coverage on mute, and turned to Bones in triumph. "This is the year, you just wait and see, Bones. The Steelers are going all the way. Oh, yeah! Super Bowl forty-six here we come."

Bones put down the article she'd been reading, and regarded him levelly. She was not much of a fan of the game of football, but, to make the season endurable, she had selected a team to follow, and it did not play in Pittsburgh. She did not have the inclination to ride the emotional rollercoaster inherent in supporting a team with little better than an average chance of winning, and so she had done her research and picked the organization which, like herself, was generally acknowledged to be the best in the field. Of course, the fact that her choice made Booth crazy didn't hurt either. "The Patriots won their game today as well," she reminded him. "I agree that the Steelers are a lock to make the play-offs, but they'll have to beat New England in order to represent the AFC in the Super Bowl, and they haven't managed that very often in the last decade or so."

"Way to ruin a moment, Bones," Booth grumbled.

"I'm merely attempting to spare you the disappointments attendant on irrational optimism, Booth. I consider it my wifely duty."

He scowled. "You know, don't you, that rooting for the Pats is grounds for divorce in Pennsylvania?"

"It's fortunate for me, then, that we live in Virginia." She rose from her armchair, and made her way to the Christmas tree on the far side of the room. "I am so certain I will win our wager, that I have already purchased an officially-licensed Patriots jersey for you to wear when Tom Brady leads his team against the NFC champions next February." She drew a medium-sized, colorfully-wrapped package from under the tree, and brought it to him. "Care to guess whose number I chose for you?"

He crossed his arms, and stuck his hands in his armpits. "It's not Christmas for another two hours."

She placed the present on the couch beside him, and retreated to the nearby ottoman. "Let's call it a belated solstice gift, then. Happy New Astronomical Year, Booth!"

He picked up the present reluctantly, and gave it a shake. "Feels too heavy to be a jersey. 'Course you might have done some creative packaging…"

"Quit stalling!"

"All right, all right!" He detached the shimmery bow, and began tearing away the red and green wrapping paper. "But, just so you know, I'm not removing any of the tags, so you can exchange it for a smaller size Troy Polamalu jersey when the time comes." He lifted the top of the shirt box, and a flurry of white peanuts rose up and out onto the floor. "What the…?" Among the peanuts nestled, not the dreaded red, white and blue Wes Welker jersey, but two small, rectangular packages, each enveloped in plain brown paper. "Books?"

Eyes alight and lips pressed tight in anticipation, Bones said nothing.

He chose the lighter of the two, first. Inside the wrapping, he found a rather unpromising object: a cardboard-backed notebook with a worn cloth binding and grimy covers. He looked up at his wife, and raised his eyebrows.

"Open it," she suggested.

He took up the notebook, and turned back the front cover. At the top of the first page of unlined paper, he read, _Dear Booth, it has been scant weeks, in calendar terms, since I watched you walk up the concourse away from me at Dulles International Airport, but it seems like an eternity. It has been universally acknowledged since Einstein that space and time are relative, so, perhaps this accounts for the dilation, but_ … "Bones? What is this?"

"They're the letters I wrote you when I was in Maluku. They're in journal form. I meant to mail the notebook to you in Afghanistan when I'd filled it, but, with one thing and another, I… never did."

Booth was flipping through page after page of neat writing and the odd little illustration. "I… I can't believe it! You wrote all this for me?"

"With you in mind, certainly. When I read, in 'The Tale of Twin Booths,' how much a phone call or letter would have meant to Vic, I remembered this notebook, and thought you might like to have it. I would have given it to you sooner, but I couldn't find it for the longest time. There's a second one, too, somewhere."

"This is so much nicer than a football jersey! Thank you, Bones!" He set the box on the floor, and, crossing the short distance between them, bent down and kissed her. "This might be the best present you've ever given me."

She grinned up at him. "Better than the tommy guns?"

"Those _were_ pretty sweet," he allowed.

"Don't forget: there's a second gift. You might like that one best of all."

"I can't imagine…" He resumed his seat on the couch, and took up the remaining package. It was a thicker, heavier rectangle: definitely a hardcover book. "An advance copy of your latest thriller?" he guessed.

"Find out for yourself."

He undid the wrapping, and discovered, as expected, a book. It had an onionskin dust wrapper, which, when removed, revealed a moderately thick volume bound in hand-tooled leather with tasteful gilt decoration. The front cover bore the title in gold-embossed letters: A Tale of Twin Booths. "No way," he said, softly. He quickly flipped to the title page, and there, on crisp matte paper, was his title, with his name, Seeley J. Booth, and that of his co-author, Phillip Cameron, PhD, neatly centered. "This is incredible!"

"It's a bespoke edition, the only one of its kind. Did you notice the frontispiece? It's one of three drawings I commissioned from Angela."

Opposite the title page was a pen and ink rendering of a Grecian urn decorated similarly to the one he had described in his story, with a man kitted out as a warrior pursuing a fleet-footed nymph with her head turned back over one shoulder. About midway through the text, there was a second illustration, showing the same urn, this time with the nymph chasing the warrior, and finally, opposite the page bearing the word "coda," was the urn featuring the nymph and warrior standing toe-to-toe, faces angled toward each other, only a second away from their lips meeting in a kiss. "I don't know what to say." He riffled the pages, releasing the pleasant smells of new paper and fresh ink, and ran his fingers over the maroon leather of the binding. "I'm… overwhelmed. I'll treasure it always."

"I'm _so_ glad you like it. And, listen to this: I've pitched the book to my publishers, and they're definitely interested. Of course, it's more of a novella at its current length, so the tale will have to be fleshed out. We're thinking of adding chapters from the sisters' point of view; you know: their daddy issues counterbalancing the Booths' mommy issues. The working title is 'Twin Tales'."

"Hold on. Go back a bit. Who's this 'we' you're referring to?"

"Dr. Phil and myself, of course. Who else? We've been discussing it over the phone ever since the possibility of our working together came up over dinner."

Booth sat up, alarmed. "I thought the two of you were joking!"

"I don't know what would've made you think that. It's a perfectly viable project. My editor is wildly enthusiastic."

"But, Bones, it's much too personal! I never meant for anyone to read that stuff but you!"

Bones waved that objection away as trivial. "All proper names and professional details will be changed, obviously, and, if anyone _does_ suspect the story is loosely based on us — which I don't envisage happening — we'll simply deny it. And, the book will be published under a pseudonym — we can't decide between 'Brennan S. Cameron' or 'Cameron S. Brennan' — so that will further muddy the waters. If it relieves your mind, you can have as much input on the final draft as you'd like."

That mollified him, somewhat. "And, if I still object once it's done, then what?"

"Well, then, we'd have to abandon the book, and return any advance the publisher gave us, which would be a shame since that amount, and anything we earn in royalties could be donated to benefit returning war veterans and their families."

Booth was intrigued. "Do you think the royalties would amount to very much?"

Bones shrugged. "Who can say? The publishing world is unpredictable. And, by the way, I'm only talking about our share of the royalties. Phil will do what he likes with his own."

"So, now he's 'Phil,' is he?"

"My relationship to your former therapist is collegial in nature, one writer to another, not patient to doctor. I'm scarcely going to insist on being called 'Dr. Temperance,' after all! Besides, he's so easy-going, it's hard to stand on ceremony with him. I didn't expect to like him, as you know, but he seems to have a combination of Sweets' and Chef Wyatt's best qualities and none of their hidden agendas. I quite enjoy collaborating with him."

"I can't say I'm liking the sound of this, Bones," he growled.

"Honestly, Booth, you're not going to have a fit of jealousy, are you?"

He considered her narrowly for a moment, and then, in a decisive fashion, got to his feet. "No, and I'll tell you why. Or, rather…" He retrieved a squarish parcel from under the tree, and offered it to her. "I'll show you."

She did not quibble about its not being Christmas Day, but accepted the present, and took a moment to admire the opulent foil paper and enormous satin bow. "You didn't wrap this yourself," she deduced.

"No, Angela did it for me. You'll see why in a minute."

The paper once removed, there was a double layer of bubble wrap to deal with. Finally, the packaging disposed of, Bones lifted up a framed and matted print of a bright orange and white clown fish swimming down through an upper stratum of turquoise sea anemone tendrils toward a lower one of deep inky purple. Just above the lower edge of the mat, in beautiful calligraphy, were the words: "You and I, we're bound to one another." The print was signed and dated by Angela Montenegro.

Bones gazed a long moment at the print in her lap, and then, she lifted eyes brilliant with unshed tears to her husband, and smiled. "I love my Christmas present, Booth."

Her look, her words swept him back in time to another Christmas Eve, when he'd been standing with his son Parker out in the cold on the other side of a chain-link fence from her. She was standing at a window, a bright square against the darkness, holding her cell phone to her ear and gazing out at them. He'd been dazzled nearly speechless by the picture she made, and he remembered vividly thinking to himself, "'Man, oh, man, you are _toast_."

"Earth to Booth…"

He became aware of present-day Bones, on her feet now having just propped the framed print on the wide shelf below the fireplace, out of harm's way. "I was just thinking of the Christmas you celebrated with your family in the prison trailer. Remember? Parker and I decorated a tree, and set it up for you in the parking lot?"

"Yes, of course. What brought that to mind?"

"What you said just now: 'I love my Christmas present, Booth'." He shook his head, ruefully. "That guy back then? He didn't think he had a snowball's chance in hell with you, Temperance Brennan, but here I am, married to you, with three great kids, a wonderful home, and even a hardcover book to my credit!"

She waded through the discarded packing materials, and took the hands he held out to her. "You're happy." She beamed at him: no hint of a question, only gratified recognition.

"You know it! How 'bout you, Bones? Happy?"

"Incomparably."

"I'll take that as a 'yes'." He drew her closer until they were standing toe-to-toe, then, released her hands and wrapped his arms around her waist. "So, it's you and me." He angled his head toward her; she raised hers slightly to his. They were nose to nose, now, their lips mere millimeters one from the other's. "Booth and his Bones, living happily ever after."

"Amen," she said.

And, the rest, as they say, is… steamboats.


End file.
